


The Possibility of Happiness

by Caden_Ashford



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, And More Angst, Angst, F/F, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, and fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-07 21:00:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 60,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3182993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caden_Ashford/pseuds/Caden_Ashford
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Myka had known since she was born that the first thing her soulmate would say to her was "Sorry," because that was the word that was written on her skin in an ink darker and even more permanent than a tattoo.</p>
<p>How could she possibly have guessed that <em>Sorry</em> would turn out to be a Victorian author she had idolized for most of her life?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This shamelessly self-indulgent story is set in an alternate universe in which the first words your soulmate says to you are tattooed on your body somewhere in their handwriting. This is a trope I’ve seen circulating through fic in the Marvel Cinematic Universe (I think originated by [amusewithaview](http://archiveofourown.org/users/amusewithaview/pseuds/amusewithaview)?), and I figured it was about time someone wrote one for Myka and H.G.
> 
> Please note that in this world, having someone be “predestined” to be your perfect match from birth is considered (mostly) unproblematic. (If I didn’t explain the trope well enough, read on; it should become clearer as you go.)
> 
> I recently re-watched H.G.’s first appearance in Time Will Tell, and in fact, the first words that she and Myka exchange are “Sorry” and “Oh, sorry,” before either of them knows who the other is. When I was thinking about this fic, I had always thought Myka’s first words to H.G. were something like “H.G. Wells is actually a woman,” but no! I was mistaken.
> 
> Many thanks, as usual, to my lovely wife for being my beta. And in case you didn’t know already, I don’t own the characters of Warehouse 13.

_Sorry_ was not very original, as soulmarks went. Myka had always supposed it was a bit better than something as bland and common as _Hello_ , but not by much. After all, how many times in her life had a stranger apologized to her? So there were probably hundreds of people out there that could have been her soulmate, and she wouldn’t have known, because the first thing her soulmate was going to say (or had already said) to her was _Sorry_.

For a while when she was younger, Myka had tried to make every response to a muttered “Sorry” from a stranger something interesting or memorable: _that’s all right, I don’t mind_ , or _it was my fault anyway_ , or _it happens to the best of us_ , or _I didn’t like this shirt anyway_. Something that might help identify her to her soulmate, whoever they were, since she was pretty sure she’d never be able to identify hers from their single-word greeting.

She also tried, for a while, to imagine what kind of person had the handwriting that matched the soulmark on the inside of her right wrist: an old-fashioned cursive that looked as if it had been written with a fountain pen. She would study the sharp upstroke of the capital S, or the loop at the end of the y that trailed off like the writer was in a hurry, and she would wonder who it belonged to. She had even, at one point in her life, tried writing with a fountain pen herself, just to see what it was like, but she had found it too messy for her taste and given up on it—although she did still keep that pen in a desk drawer at home, just as a reminder that _Sorry_ was out there somewhere, maybe even under her nose.

Not that she really needed reminding. Her soulmark was right there on her wrist all the time, and everywhere she turned, everyone was _obsessed_ with soulmates. Movies, books, magazines, TV (not that Myka watched much TV)—soulmates and soulmarks were _everywhere_. And science still didn’t really seem to have an explanation for _why_ , although there were groups studying them across the world. It was just known that someday, somewhere, everyone who had a soulmark would meet their soulmate, their so-called “perfect match.”

But not every soulmate match was really as perfect as they were cracked up to be. Myka’s parents were a prime example. Her mom had known for years who her soulmate was, since her soulmark said _Warren Bering, nice to meet you_ , so when she and Myka’s dad had finally met, her first words to him were _Oh, finally_. And they’d settled down pretty quickly after that, got married, had Myka, and then Tracy after. But even though they were soulmates, Myka’s mom was timid and quiet and her dad was, at times, abusive and tyrannical. Her parents had fought sometimes, but mostly her dad had said something would happen, or _wouldn’t_ happen, and that was the way it would be. So Myka’s childhood wasn’t the greatest, and seeing her parents together, especially as she got older and understood more and more of how they _weren’t_ perfect for each other, she started to wonder if she even _wanted_ to find _Sorry_. Because even if she could figure out who _Sorry_ was, it was possible the two of them wouldn’t be all that good together anyway.

So she stopped wondering and worrying quite so much. She focused on herself, and she worked hard in college, and then even harder when she joined the boys’ club that was the Secret Service. She stopped looking for _Sorry_ , and stopped trying to make her responses memorable, especially since, in Denver, it felt like she heard that word from strangers _constantly_. At work, in coffee shops, the grocery store, on the train. People she didn’t know were always apologizing to her, so “Sorry” stopped having this larger-than-life meaning to her.

Especially when she met Sam.

Sam was married, but he was unmarked, which meant his wife wasn’t his soulmate. And even though Myka didn’t buy into the whole soulmates thing 100%, she couldn’t help but feel like somehow, the fact that Sam and his wife weren’t soulmates made the fact that he was cheating more bearable and less offensive.

Anyway, being with Sam was great; because his first words to her weren’t _Sorry_ , she didn’t feel like there were huge expectations riding on their relationship. They could just…be themselves with each other, and that was what she needed. They blew off steam together, and she came to trust him, love him even. At least, she thought she loved him. She’d never been with someone else as long as she’d been with Sam, and she’d never been in love before. But what else could it have been? Especially when he died, and she was so devastated, she felt certain that it had to be love, because why else would his death have affected her so much?

To get over her heartbreak (and her guilt), she moved to D.C., but it didn’t make the pain go away. She only started to feel better when she was in the middle of nowhere, in South Dakota, working for the mysterious Warehouse 13, because it turned out that the constant threat of imminent danger made Sam’s death seem, in comparison, fairly unimportant. After all, her being late in Denver seemed like nothing when they were trying to stop the president from being killed by a stolen samurai sword that made the user invisible, or when her dad was about to die because of a bifurcated Poe artifact. She and Pete were always jetting off to some place or other, or busy with inventory, so there wasn’t any time to think about Sam, or about _Sorry_ ; she had to be focused all the time, because she sure couldn’t trust Pete to be covering all the angles. He was more likely to play with an artifact and cause some catastrophe that was totally unnecessary than he was to think anything through.

Plus, working for the Warehouse meant that she was saving people—all the time. And that sort of helped with the guilt over Sam’s death, like she was making up for not having been able to save him by saving as many other people as she could.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, though, there was a niggling feeling that maybe, just maybe, saving the world over and over again was making her worthy of _Sorry_ —whoever they were.

* * *

Helena knew that she was quite mad after more than a century spent awake, if not aware, while in the bronze, focused on thoughts of Christina and her own failed attempts to get justice—or vengeance—for her daughter’s death. But the discovery of the soulmark on her skin made her certain she had gone insane, for, to her own remembrance, she had been unmarked when she was bronzed in the first place.

(If her memory served, it had caused something of a scandal among her family when, year after year after year, her mark failed to appear. Even after Christina was born, and even after she had died, Helena’s skin had remained pristine and unmarked. But Helena’s memory, after the bronze, was not what it had once been, which made her recollection untrustworthy—at least about certain things which her mind had apparently deemed unimportant, including, it seemed, her soulmark or lack thereof. About other matters, like Christina’s death, her memory was terrifyingly clear.)

The new soulmark was inked along the curve of her right bicep, and said _Oh, sorry_ in a hand that was, despite its being in print rather than the cursive which had pervaded her own time, meticulously neat.

Of course, from what she recalled of soulmarks from more than a hundred years ago, most people had their soulmark appear upon the birth of their soulmate, or, if their soulmate was already living, were born with it themselves. So it was possible that her soulmate had merely not been born before she was bronzed, and that he—or she, because Helena had never discounted the possibility of being happy with a woman as her partner and had, in fact, concluded long ago that women were generally better lovers—had been born while she was in the bronze.

It was also possible, given how _long_ she was in the bronze, that her soulmate, like her daughter, was long dead, and that the words inscribed on her skin were what her soulmate was _meant_ to have said to her on their first meeting. And besides, it seemed unlikely that the person she was now, so damaged and unbalanced, was a perfect match for anyone. So all in all, it was a very simple matter to discount her new soulmark entirely, and to pretend to all and sundry, herself included, that it was an artifact of a life left long behind her.

Thus, when she encountered a tall brunette in her house in London—now a museum—and they exchanged apologies for having to pass so near in the hall, Helena didn’t give it a second thought—not after she retrieved her things from the Escher Vault, not after she killed MacPherson, not even when she began reviewing her long-neglected notes on Warehouse 2 and the Minoan Trident. It was only when she decided to track the Warehouse’s agents that she recalled the manner in which she had first met them, and the apologies that were exchanged.

But the words _Oh, sorry_ were so mundane that Helena didn’t truly consider the possibility. Not even when she met up with Agent Myka Bering and young Claudia Donovan and helped them with their case at Tamalpais University; not even when she whizzed Myka up into the air with her grappler. The idea that Myka could possibly be her soulmate didn’t really sink in until, at last, she herself was reinstated as an agent of the Warehouse.

* * *

Myka had loved the writings of H.G. Wells for most of her life, so tracking Wells down for the Warehouse had its own particular thrill for her. Of course, she’d been expecting a man with a mustache, just like all the pictures, so she hadn’t taken much note of the dark-haired woman who sort of bumped into her in the H.G. Wells museum. She hadn’t even registered that they apologized to one another, since  _Sorry_ had, over the years, lost so much of its original meaning for her. She had had so many encounters just like that one that their first meeting, such as it was, was entirely unremarkable and unmemorable.

Instead, Myka would remember their first meeting as the time she, Myka, trailed off about how H.G. Wells was actually a woman—the woman, in fact, now holding her partner hostage with his own Tesla.

_Sorry_ didn’t even register as their first contact.

But her long-standing literary crush on Wells had made its impression, and after meeting H.G., after being stuck to the ceiling with Cavorite, Myka had found herself fascinated by the idea that the person behind all her favorite stories was, in fact, a woman. So because of that, she wrote off her interest in H.G. as academic, and didn’t think about her much for a while. But then came Tamalpais and all the business with H.G. there—the stuff about her daughter Christina, the part where H.G. saved Claudia, and the grappler. Oh, the _grappler_!

Myka was maybe, possibly, a little _teeny_ bit star-struck.

The post-it on the grappler didn’t help, nor did her encounter with H.G. at Dickinson’s funeral, or her finding the tracker H.G. had slipped into her pocket, or the way H.G. came to help them against Alexander in Russia, even though it meant her getting frozen with the Titanic artifact. None of that made Myka any less fascinated. In fact, it only made her come closer to admitting that her once solely _literary_ crush was now something more of a real, person-on-person crush, even though Myka had never before had feelings for another woman. It didn’t seem to matter—H.G. defied explanation or categorization and Myka was sure she had never met someone who _belonged_ at the Warehouse the way H.G. did.

Based on what she’d seen of H.G. so far, it would’ve been a crime not to recommend her to the Regents for reinstatement, no matter how much it pissed off Artie. But because Myka was a good agent, thorough and dutiful, she searched out all of the Warehouse files she could find that even made mention of H.G. Wells, because she didn’t want to make any mistakes in her letter, or in making the recommendation in the first place. It wasn’t all that hard to find the files, really, because Artie had already pulled most of them, probably trying to find evidence to back _his_ case that H.G. should be put back in the bronze.

Because of that, Myka felt no guilt in packing up the whole stack and taking them into the Warehouse library so she could read in peace. It was mostly what she would expect of any former agent’s file—a brief bio, notes on cases they were involved in, stuff like that—although in H.G.’s case, it also involved files on the artifacts and inventions she’d created.

A few files in, Myka had seen enough of the last that she wasn’t surprised to find herself looking at a schematic for what appeared to be a prototype of the Imperceptor Vest. She also wasn’t surprised by the fact that the mathematical equations and scientific notations scribbled in the corners in block letters perfectly matched her memory of the handwriting on the post-it that had come with the grappler. However, Myka _was_ surprised when she turned the page over (carefully, due to its age); there, on the reverse side of the page, was a prosaic description of the invention’s purpose, written in a cursive hand so familiar it stole the breath from her chest.

Even with the ink as faded by time as it was, Myka could clearly see the sharp upstroke of the s’s, the way the o’s didn’t always make full circles, the geometric precision of the r’s—and to top it all off, there was the familiar loop beneath the y, trailing off in at least one place into an ink blot she had often imagined at the end of her own soulmark.

Myka didn’t specialize in profiling, and wasn’t an expert in graphology—the study of handwriting—but she’d learned enough on both subjects that she was willing to bet, based on the slant of both the print and the cursive, and from certain similarities in the strokes, that the same individual had written the text on both sides of the schematic. And, after a quick check of the post-it still stored with the grappler (the H.G. Wells section of the Warehouse was conveniently located around the corner from the library), Myka was certain that that person was H.G. Wells.

_Sorry_ was a Victorian author she had idolized for most of her life.

For a few long moments, it was hard to breathe, to think, to do just about anything at all, because Myka couldn’t quite make sense of the idea that _H.G. Wells_ was her soulmate.

After some panicking, and some internal squealing which she would never, _ever_ admit to, Myka had dismissed anything else that she might find in H.G.’s files as unimportant, put them aside, and set to writing her recommendation letter to the Regents, more determined than ever to see H.G. reinstated as an agent of the Warehouse. After all—how could she keep her soulmate from endless wonder?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soulmate AUs, in my experience, provide for endless meet-cute possibilities, but I thought that the first Bering & Wells fic to go there should probably examine the possibility of their being soulmates through canon happenings, so that’s what will happen here.
> 
> Even if it hurts.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this story follows canon events (to a certain point), there will be, from this chapter on, some dialogue from the show in addition to original content.

Helena could tell, instantly, that the news of her reinstatement was not to the liking of all of the Warehouse staff. Mr. Kosan and Mrs. Frederic had certainly seemed happy enough with the choice, and from the starry-eyed look Myka was giving her, she was well pleased with the news as well. But Peter was obviously not so thrilled, and Artie—well. Clearly he didn’t trust her. Which, Helena had to admit, he was right not to; her notes on Warehouse 2, though she was certain he would never discover them, were all the evidence he would need to see her safely encased in bronze again.

But the Secret Service badge—the badge was the object. No matter how the others felt about her and her role at the Warehouse, it was the unfettered access to the Warehouse that Helena truly needed, and which her role as an agent of the Warehouse would provide. All of the Warehouse files were now there for the taking, so she could review them to her heart’s content and find what she sought; namely intelligence, clues about the location and defenses of Warehouse 2. Certainly now the Warehouse’s artifacts were also available to her, though she would have to be cautious in removing any she might need in her pursuit. Still, she had already obtained some safeguards—the tar from Pitch Lake, the Corsican Vest—so hopefully she wouldn’t need more artifact assistance.

At any rate, given Artie’s obvious abhorrence of her, and Pete’s apparent reluctance, it was clear to Helena that her continued presence at the Warehouse depended on maintaining her good relationship with Myka Bering. On first contact with the Warehouse Helena had attempted to ingratiate herself with Pete, but Myka—Myka had proven herself intriguing as well as useful, and now…well. Helena could see that Myka was beginning to warm to her in other ways as well, and though their flirtation had begun entirely organically and without nefarious motives (it was merely her nature, after all, to pursue that which interested her), now that such a suit was quite clearly in the offing, Helena was certainly not above using her feminine wiles to further (or at least to maintain) her course.

Since Myka was already convinced of her worth and her intentions, Helena had hoped to jump in with both feet immediately after her reinstatement, to prove to all the other agents—and Claudia as well—that she was an asset to them. Artie’s distrust, however, prevented her from going into the field immediately, and she was relegated to watching over Myka and Pete during their trip with her time machine. She was, understandably, frustrated by her inability to do more than sit by and wait while they were gone.

That frustration gave way to shock, however, when Helena went to check Myka’s pulse, and found her own handwriting emblazoned on the inside of Myka’s wrist. She was forced to mask her surprise, given that Claudia was hovering nearby, and, rather than linger on the discovery, or examine the mark more closely, she continued with taking Myka’s pulse, and then moved on casually to do the same for Pete.

In the back of her mind, however, she could not help but ruminate upon her discovery. As it was undoubtedly her handwriting, she was, therefore, Myka Bering’s soulmate, and thus, the writing upon her own flesh had to be Myka’s. It was logical, after all, the exchange of apologies. And that meant that her soulmark had indeed appeared while she was encased in bronze, and Myka—at birth Myka would already have been emblazoned with writing belonging to someone born more than a hundred years before her.

Just as she had told Claudia, the ink with which their lives were inscribed was, truly, indelible.

Helena wanted, more than anything, to track down a sample of Myka’s writing and compare it to the words on her arm to verify that she was correct, but there wasn’t time. Artie returned to the Warehouse and cut the power to the time machine, and then it was a mad dash to see that the agents were safely returned to their bodies—for their sake, and for her own, for she had no doubt Artie would make good on his threat to kill her if Myka and Pete didn’t survive their trip to the 1960’s.

To everyone’s good fortune, her temporary fix held, and Pete and Myka woke in their bodies as they should have. Helena’s own curiosity would have had her following Myka away from the time machine, or seeking out that handwriting sample she suddenly desired; but Rebecca St. Clair wanted use of the machine, and Helena was the only one familiar enough with its use to send her back, so she was detained to see Ms. St. Clair on her way while the rest of the team dispersed.

It was only after Rebecca was truly gone, and her body put on its way to St. Louis, that Helena was free to procure a sample of Myka’s writing. She started her quest in the nearest likely locale, the Warehouse library, where she was surprised to find a large stack of files related to herself and her inventions. The discovery of this wealth of information about how she had been viewed by others—her contemporaries as well as agents who came after her time—piqued her curiosity enough that she was soon seated in the library reviewing the files herself, and quite forgot about her quest for a good while.

Long enough, in fact, that she was mired in the more painful moments of her life preserved by the files when Myka herself appeared in the library before Helena could recall her original intent in visiting the place. Though a part of Helena wanted nothing more than to reveal her soulmark to Myka, and to make an attempt for the happy ending always promised to soulmates by romantic novels and such, Myka’s appearance, and Helena’s own fraught memories of Christina and her search for vengeance had reminded her quite explicitly of the reasons she had sought to rejoin the Warehouse in the first place.

Her happiness was most certainly not the object, nor was Myka’s.

Still, there were appearances to keep up, so Helena, well used to putting on personae that would satisfy her brother’s friends or other social circles, put a smile upon her face. “It’s strange,” she said, “to be reading reports about myself written so long ago—and by friends. It’s—interesting, I suppose, to hear what they thought about me.”

“Sort of like hearing your own eulogy, I guess. Except you weren’t dead.”

“No,” she replied with a sigh. “I most certainly was not.”

There was a pause, until Myka said, “Were you really awake in the bronze that whole time?”

It was a struggle to contain the grim expression which wanted to overtake her face, but Helena managed to keep her face blank. “Yes,” she said, closing the file in her lap, slowly and deliberately. “Alone with your thoughts for so long…I thought I had gone quite mad when I was unbronzed, that it was all some—elaborate hallucination.” She smiled, bitterly. “It would not have been the first time I dreamt of my release.”

“I can only imagine,” said Myka, not unkindly. “How did you get used to it so fast?”

“I am a dreamer, darling,” said Helena, looking up at Myka with the smirk she had used to great effect on several women in her own time. “I had been imagining strange worlds my whole life—long before the bronze.”

Myka brought up the books published in her name then, and their conversation took a pleasant turn, which soon veered into the realm of all the literature Helena had missed since she was bronzed. At that point, Myka had positively launched herself off the sofa they were sharing, and began flitting about the library, collecting piles of books which she insisted Helena had to read.

After a while, Helena stopped Myka in her tracks with a gentle hand on her arm, glancing from the prodigious stack back to Myka. “I think that’s quite enough, don’t you?” she asked. Myka blushed, and then laughed, and the two of them together gathered up Helena’s “required reading” and started back towards the bed and breakfast where, Helena was pleased to note, her reception was much warmer than it had been.

That evening, as Helena was ensconced safely in an armchair, reading, at Myka’s suggestion, some of her brother’s later work (already Helena had concluded it was not as gripping as the stuff which she had helped create), she could see over the top of her book Pete and Claudia fighting over the remote, and Myka reading in another chair opposite her own, while Leena was in the kitchen, baking by the smell of it. It was all very domestic, and for some time she allowed herself to drink it in and, given the day’s earlier revelation with regards to Myka and herself, to _want_.

But then Helena recalled what Myka’s soulmark said, and with a sigh, let go of her desires and her wants, because carrying out her plans meant that she and Myka were not destined to be.

Truly, their soulmarks could not have afforded them more poignant foreshadowing.

* * *

Helena’s help with the time machine was enough to get the rest of the team to relax around her, a fact for which Myka was extremely grateful. Not that she regretted backing Helena up by helping her get reinstated, but it’d put Myka at odds with the rest of the team, especially with Artie, and that had sucked. But after the time travel thing with Cinderella’s knife, Artie had admitted he might have been in the wrong, and Myka had felt like her smile was brighter than a hundred lightbulbs. Not just because she’d been right, although she had been, but because now everyone else seemed to trust Helena too—something which Myka had desperately wanted ever since she figured out that Helena was her soulmate.

The other thing she had done, in accordance with Secret Service protocol she’d drilled into herself many years ago, was to fill out two copies of form 576-S, declaring her soulmate’s identity. Back in Denver or D.C., those copies would’ve gone to the HR department and to Myka’s supervisor, and then the Secret Service would’ve conducted an investigation to determine whether any relationship between Myka and Helena, romantic or platonic, would constitute a security risk. And when the investigation concluded, if it was determined there was no risk involved in their having a relationship, then Myka (and now Helena, too, since she was an agent also) would’ve been given two weeks’ leave to get to know her soulmate.

But since the Warehouse didn’t exactly follow Secret Service protocol, Myka didn’t know what to do with those two copies of form 576-S, mostly because she couldn’t figure out who she was supposed to file them _with_. Artie? Mrs. Frederic? Mr. Kosan? She’d checked the manual—every last goddamn book in that stupid room—and come up with no answers. And it wasn’t like she could casually ask Artie what an agent was supposed to do in the event their soulmate turned up, because that would’ve been too suspicious, especially coming from perfectly by-the-book Myka. So while Myka would’ve loved to have those two weeks’ leave to take Helena somewhere quiet to get to know her—maybe even in a non-platonic, very physical way, although she hadn’t _totally_ decided that was what she wanted from her relationship with Helena, provided that was even something _Helena_ might want—the two copies of form 576-S stayed in a drawer in her bedroom. At least, she told herself, they would stay there until she could find the right time to bring up the whole soulmate thing with someone who’d know the answers to her questions—probably Artie, which meant it would likely be a while.

In the meantime, Helena was adjusting, learning about computers from Claudia and pop culture from Pete. She and Artie even seemed to have reached some kind of détente, because he actually seemed to be enjoying giving her history lectures from time to time on the stuff she’d missed. Myka herself was keeping Helena basically up to her eyeballs in books to read, and the two of them would often hole up together at the B&B, or in the Warehouse library, discussing books, history, feminism, their families, the differences between the present and the Victorian age—anything they could think of.

But although Helena was a brilliant storyteller as well as just plain brilliant, there were still occasionally things that frustrated her given that she was a woman misplaced in time. One morning, for example, Myka came down from her room to find Helena gripping a pen and staring at the morning paper with what appeared to be both displeasure and determination.

Myka said good morning to her maybe three times before Helena finally looked up. “Not a _very_ good morning, I’m afraid,” she replied, tossing her pen down with apparent disgust.

Sitting down across the table from Helena, Myka helped herself to some tea from the pot Helena had left at her elbow. “What’s up?” she asked.

“It’s this damn cross _word_ puzzle,” Helena groused, pushing the page across the table towards Myka. “I can’t make heads or tails of it. And you know me—puzzles are one of my great joys in life. So to be foiled by one…”

“First off,” said Myka, trying and failing to hide her smile behind her mug, “it’s a _cross_ word puzzle, not a cross _word_ puzzle.” She emphasized the correct pronunciation, and then pulled the page towards her, noting that Helena had only filled in one answer: _neuter, as a horse—GELD_. Then she glanced at the details of the puzzle, and smiled. “Well, nothing to be embarrassed about,” she said. “This is the New York Times, and it’s Friday.” Helena gave her a blank stare, so with a laugh, Myka continued. “The New York Times puts out some of the hardest crosswords in the country—one every day of the week, with the puzzle getting harder each day. So the Monday puzzles are the easiest, and the Saturday ones are the hardest.”

“And the Sunday puzzles?”

“Bigger than the regular puzzles, but not as hard as the Saturday ones I don’t think. It’s been a while since I’ve done one.” She looked down at the clues, and realized there was no way Helena would have gotten through it on her own. The oldest pop culture reference Myka could find in the clues was to J.M. Barrie, and if she had the timeline right, even his work had been published after Helena was bronzed. “It would’ve been better to start you with a Monday puzzle, but…here. We’ll do this one together,” she said, picking up her tea and coming to sit next to Helena at the table instead of across from her, and after some more explanation from Myka, they started filling in answers. They didn’t manage to finish it, though, which resulted in a pinched expression from Helena that made Myka smile.

“Don’t worry,” she said, with a gentle touch to Helena’s shoulder. “The answers will be in tomorrow’s paper, if you can wait that long.”

The following morning, Myka wasn’t surprised to see Helena already at the table, comparing their efforts on the Friday puzzle to the answers in the Saturday Times.

From then on, it became a tradition. They would meet at the table in the mornings before the others were awake, and they would have tea or coffee (tea if Helena arrived first, coffee if it was Myka) and do the New York Times crossword. When Helena started getting the hang of them herself, Myka would read the rest of the paper while Helena slogged away, and would help whenever Helena got stuck. That happened less and less frequently as Helena got used to the sorts of things they asked in the puzzles, and as she learned more and more about what she’d missed while in the bronze.

They had become, Myka realized suddenly one morning, really close friends. Maybe even something slightly _more_ than that, although they had never even kissed, much less done anything more than that. Hell, they hadn’t even _talked_ about their feelings. Myka knew, though, that the way she felt about Helena was something she’d never felt for anyone else before, not even Sam. She supposed that was why they were soulmates—that they really were meant for each other.

Not that they’d ever really talked about soulmates and soulmarks, either, and not that Myka had ever even _seen_ Helena’s soulmark (though, god, she _really_ wanted to. Where was it, she wondered? Somewhere on her torso? One of her thighs? Her foot? Her _ass_?). Actually, the first—and only—time soulmates had come up in conversation between them, Myka had been so flustered by the idea of talking about the subject with Helena that she had just snapped something about how her parents were soulmates but they were a _terrible_ match and she wanted nothing to do with any of it.

And that had been the end of _that_ topic.

Sometimes, Myka lamented the fact that she’d so effectively managed to shut down talk about soulmates with Helena—especially when she would catch Helena staring at her soulmark, which seemed to happen pretty frequently. Myka had actually caught her staring at least six times in one day once—not that she’d been counting (but of course she’d been counting). But then Myka would remind herself that even if she’d wanted to talk about it with Helena, there were good reasons not to. For one, Helena was still sort of on thin ice with Artie. And for another, Myka really, _really_ didn’t want to break whatever fragile thing was growing between them.

So as Myka looked sidelong at Helena at the table, drinking in the fall of her hair and the quirk of her lips, she concluded that she was falling in love with H.G. Wells. But even when Helena looked up and caught her eye, and they exchanged little smiles that might as well have been some kind of code, Myka didn’t say a damn word about what she was feeling—even though it was probably the one thing she thought about most in the world.

* * *

Though Helena was being aided in her adjustment to the present by the other Warehouse agents, she still struggled with adjusting to being outside the bronze itself. It was one thing to become accustomed to “skinny jeans,” as Claudia informed her they were called, or to learn how to use a dishwashing machine, as those were relatively minor changes (improvements, really) in the way of life. However, it was another matter entirely to adjust to  _reality_ after having been imprisoned in her own mind for more than a hundred years—to sift through all the many scenarios her mind had conjured during the passage of time, and to learn what truly was and was not real.

Nighttime was the worst, because it most closely resembled her time in the bronze. Consequently, Helena usually slept very poorly, waking at the slightest noise or, when she did manage a deeper sleep, often waking with a crushing certainty that she was still encased in bronze. At those times, the only true remedy was to turn on the light and stare at the old-fashioned bedside clock Leena had given her, watching time itself tick steadily forward. Only then would she feel somewhat grounded, certain once more that the bronze was in the past.

Since sleep did not come easily to her, Helena would spend her long waking hours in the night crafting and refining her plans and, once Claudia had taught her enough about computers for Helena to be competent enough to cover her tracks somewhat, implementing them. After she secured access to the funds she had set aside long ago in London, she located and hired three archaeology students to seek out Warehouse 2, providing them with as much information about its location as she had in order to get them started, and impressing upon them the fact that their final payout depended upon maintaining secrecy in the execution of their mission.

However, one of them had not seemed to think “secrecy” extended to his young sister, and so Helena found herself visiting the young man’s family in the company of Myka and Pete, thus beginning the greatest test of her acting abilities she had yet to face.

Given that Helena knew exactly what the aspiring archaeologists had been seeking, she was forced to straddle the line between appearing to know too much, and too little, as either could appear suspicious. The situation was, to put it lightly, frustrating; Helena wanted nothing more than to travel to Egypt on her own immediately, to see her goal achieved, but because of her Warehouse colleagues, and her precarious situation with Artie, she was forced to stay her hand. As the case continued, however, it soon became clear that Warehouse 2 was the object, and that the Warehouse team would soon be in pursuit. This, in turn, ameliorated her frustrations somewhat, as she would have a better chance of surviving the tribulations of Warehouse 2 in the company of others than she would on her own.

Though in the weeks prior, Helena had entertained thoughts of herself and Myka, and had continued the harmless flirtation that had arisen between them, this close to the end of her quest, thoughts of her and Myka together began to dissolve, fading away as the madness she had enveloped herself in while in the bronze took hold once again.

If sleep had been difficult before the Warehouse was on the case of her archaeology students, once they were actually _in_ Egypt, it became entirely impossible, with Helena instead passing her nights in fevered waking dreams that taunted her with Christina’s death and the many other horrors she had learned human beings perpetrated upon one another constantly in this strange new time.

Never had she been more certain that her plan to recover and use the Minoan Trident was the right course of action than she did after those sleepless nights. And for all that it destroyed her anew, the vision of Christina given to her by the trial of mind only solidified that certainty that she was following the right path.

After all, a world where such senseless violence as had been visited upon her daughter, her sweet, innocent child, did not deserve to continue its existence.

Still, when it came down to it, when Helena had to turn her Tesla on her Warehouse colleagues—on Myka—she experienced a moment of regret. “I do hope you can forgive me,” she said, as Myka looked at her, puzzled.

“For what?” Myka asked.

“This,” Helena replied, watching as Pete and Myka both collapsed, Myka’s soulmark flashing at her from her wrist. _Sorry_ , it said, and Helena sighed the word aloud, reflecting once more on how painfully prescient their soulmarks were, before she took up the spear that was the centerpiece of the Minoan Trident and made her escape.

She forced Myka from her mind after that, as Myka was the one thing she could think of that might make her falter in her plans—for surely someone with such good intentions as Myka Bering didn’t deserve to suffer the fate she intended for the whole world. But with Myka no longer constantly at her side, it was easier not to think of her, to dismiss the soulmark upon her own arm and go about her plans. It was easy to fall back into the grip of despair, to trap the lawyer in charge of Christina’s estate with the Primordial Tar, to send Lizzie Borden’s compact to Pete’s girlfriend, to put the pieces of the Trident back together at last and to travel to Yellowstone to see her vengeance done, to see the world rest…to see her own suffering end.

Though Helena had assumed she would be followed to Yellowstone, and had planned to have Artie or someone else do her harm in an attempt to thwart her—thus her previous retrieval of the Corsican Vest, for her own protection—she had _not_ planned on Myka thrusting a gun into her hand and demanding Helena kill her, _directly_ , rather than through the Trident.

“Not like a coward,” Myka said, holding Helena’s hand with the gun to her own head, her soulmark flashing again on her bare wrist. Having her own words thrust into her face again, so mercilessly— _Sorry_ —Helena couldn’t continue.

She couldn’t kill Myka. She couldn’t. She couldn’t watch the life go out of her eyes, the trigger pulled by her hand.

And so the gun fell away, the Trident fell away, her plans to put the world to rest dissolved, and Helena gave in, accepted that her plan was truly a manifestation of her madness, and surrendered, because Myka Bering had called her bluff.


	3. Chapter 3

The first time Myka saw Helena’s soulmark was in the desert in Egypt, when Helena emerged from their tent dressed like Lara Croft—presumably at Claudia’s or Pete’s suggestion. And though Myka had first taken in the swaths of bare skin, had noted the way Helena looked in nothing but short shorts and a tank top, she had quickly honed in on the soulmark inscribed on her bicep: _Oh, sorry_ , in letters she instantly recognized as her own. Though Myka had long been sure at that point that Helena was her soulmate, the sight brought on an unexpected, fresh surge of awe, because now it was well and truly confirmed.

Not that she had long to stand around and think about it, though, because then they were in Warehouse 2, going through the trials of mind, body, and soul, and between all the craziness there was barely enough time to breathe, much less process her feelings.

And then they were on the Warehouse floor, and Helena was turning on them, on _her_ , and the last thing Myka had time to take in before Helena Tesla’d her was the neat line of her words on Helena’s arm: _Oh, sorry_.

When she came to, there still wasn’t time to think about it, because she and Pete had to get the hell out of Warehouse 2 before it collapsed. And then they were scrambling to follow Helena’s trail—to Paris, and then to Yellowstone. The travel itself finally gave Myka enough time to think, but all she could come up with was anger, and hurt, and over everything, a sense of betrayal so strong she could barely see straight.

How could Helena have done this to her? They were _soulmates_ , for god’s sake! Not that Myka had really doubted it after she first figured out her words belonged to Helena, because they had seemed like such a perfect match in terms of intellect and wit and chemistry and, god, _everything_. And though they hadn’t talked about soulmates and soulmarks, Myka had never tried to hide hers from Helena, so surely Helena had known they were a match. And yet she had never breathed a word to Myka about what she was thinking or feeling or—any of it. And now Helena was planning to destroy the world, and Myka with it, because she was so broken and tortured by her daughter’s death and her time in the bronze and everything that came with it.

By the time they got to Yellowstone, to the place where Helena was planning to strike with the Trident, Myka was so overwrought with all this new knowledge that the only thing she could think to do was to beg Helena to kill her, to take her life, because if Myka had to die by Helena’s hand, she at least wanted the satisfaction of knowing that she would die because Helena wanted to see _her_ dead along with everyone else—soulmarks notwithstanding.

Looking into Helena’s eyes, demanding her own death, Myka saw all the torment she herself was feeling reflected back at her from Helena’s own face. And though Myka was still half expecting a bullet to the head, Helena didn’t pull the trigger. Instead she let up, pulled back, gave Myka back her life—and all the hurt that came with knowing that her soulmate, the person she had felt she knew so well, had been lying to her and deceiving her ever since they first met.

Myka was certain that all of it was her fault. How could it not be? If she hadn’t recommended Helena to the Regents—and half of her reasoning in doing that, she was ready to admit to herself, was because Helena’s words were etched on her skin—then none of this would’ve happened. Surely Artie’s mistrust of Helena would’ve ended with her back in the bronze, or suffering some worse fate, not reinstated as an agent of the Warehouse with all the resources she needed to find Warehouse 2 right at her fingertips.

So Myka submitted her resignation, and because she couldn’t bear to tell everyone face to face how much of a failure she felt, she left them a letter instead, and then she got in her SUV and drove away from the Warehouse and the people that had become more like family to her than, at times, her actual family was, running back to Colorado Springs to lick her wounds.

Not that it really helped all that much. Working in her dad’s bookstore wasn’t exactly challenging, and it left Myka with entirely too much time to think—and to hurt. Her mom seemed to sense there was something bigger behind Myka’s leaving her job, but though she gave Myka long, worried looks, she didn’t press. And Myka’s dad sure as hell didn’t say anything. He was just happy, she knew, to have a hand with the store.

But then Pete showed up with some guy she’d never seen, and Myka realized how much she missed the work she’d been doing with the Warehouse, especially after putting her extensive knowledge to use in the case with the lost Shakespeare folio. It was a good feeling, to be back in the field and helping save lives, but at the end of the day, Myka went back to the bookstore, because she still didn’t quite trust herself not to make the wrong call, not to fall for a line some enemy of the Warehouse was feeding her. She’d fallen for everything Helena said and did hook, line, and sinker, and Myka didn’t think she could risk it happening again.

She didn’t think she could risk her heart again, either, because despite all of it, thinking about the good times she and Helena had shared—the mornings spent over the newspaper, the evenings spent reading or talking about literature and life in general—still made her heart ache with what Myka knew was love. And going back to the Warehouse would almost certainly bring up those memories more frequently than the bookstore did, because the Warehouse was where they were all created.

In short, the Warehouse had become synonymous with Helena, and thoughts of Helena now always reminded Myka that she was essentially the biggest sucker in the whole world.

When Mrs. Frederic showed up that evening, at first Myka had thought nothing of it. But then Helena appeared with her, and Myka thought her heart was going to stop because seeing Helena’s face made her feel everything she had been nursing since Warehouse 2 all over again: the anger, the hurt, the betrayal, the guilt— _oh_ , the guilt. Guilt that she could have stopped it all at the beginning if she hadn’t been blinded by her own hopes, her own wishes. Her selfishness had almost ended the world.

It was hard to get past that.

And yet, there was Helena, standing in front of her. “Be careful, Myka,” she said. “Hate so easily turns to fear. Don’t walk away from your truth.”

And she was right. Myka didn’t _want_ to be working at her dad’s bookstore in Colorado Springs, helping idiots find books they were too lazy to look for on the shelves and spending her free time cataloguing the rare books stacked in crates that her dad never had time to get to. She was good at it—of course she was, because she was methodical and efficient—but it wasn’t what she loved. What she loved was what she’d been up to just that day, running around with Pete, snagging artifacts and saving the world.

And Helena, it seemed, was imprisoned somewhere, safely locked away, where she wouldn’t pose any threat to the world or to Myka, nothing more than a hologram Mrs. Frederic had summoned. Wherever she was, she was unavailable to Myka, meaning any thoughts she had about her own future, any selfishness on Myka’s part, were maybe, _probably_ , not going to end in the destruction of the entire world. Because if Myka was honest with herself, the problem wasn’t her, or her selfishness, or any of that; it was _Helena_ , the possibility of happiness that she symbolized, and if that was off the table, well…Myka did have good instincts. Helena was just the exception.

Which meant that really, there was no contest here. It wasn’t the bookstore or the Warehouse, the safety of the world or its destruction because Myka had made the wrong call. Yes, she _had_ made the wrong call, but it was only because of something the whole world had impressed upon her that she had done so. If people didn’t care so much about soulmarks, didn’t spout the notion that only the person who said your words was perfect for you, then Myka wouldn’t have trusted Helena so implicitly, wouldn’t have made that call.

Without Helena in the picture, Myka thought that maybe, just maybe, she trusted herself enough to go back to work at the Warehouse.

* * *

To say she was loath to separate her mind from her body would have been a gross understatement, but Helena knew she had earned her fate. She had earned far worse than that, truth be told, so it seemed to her almost lenient to have her consciousness stored on the Janus Coin like some piece of technological data while her body roamed about with—someone else, or something else, giving the orders; she was certain whatever being or person ended up in her body could not, in any way, be related to  _her_ , as surely the Regents would not allow that.

Having her memories moved onto the Janus Coin was shockingly painless—physically, at least. Mentally and emotionally, it was excruciating, as each memory Adwin Kosan had her summon was, for a brief instant, sharper and truer than it had been during the actual experience, and all the more painful for so being. Flashes of her parents, her brother, Christina—each image came upon her in greater focus than Helena had known her memory contained, as if she were truly seeing them face to face, complete with sounds and smells and tastes she thought long forgotten. It made her stomach clench unpleasantly, until the sensation—along with everything else—stopped.

When she was next aware, she did not have any sense of a body. She could hear, and see, but almost as if through water, or some other kind of barrier. From the familiar experience of sight she could thus judge distance, but she had no feeling, no real sense of…anything, really, which was extremely disconcerting. She could not touch, or taste, or smell, and it seemed to her that no time had passed at all since she gave her mind over to the Janus Coin.

Still, the room she perceived now was most certainly not the sterile space she had been in with Mr. Kosan, and to her knowledge, Mrs. Frederic, who was now before her, had not been present.

“Hello,” said Helena, cautiously.

“Miss Wells,” said Mrs. Frederic, “it’s good to see you.”

“It is—pleasant to see you as well,” she replied, though she still could not tell what, exactly, was going on. Thus far, her experience of being stored on the Janus Coin, so to speak, was a stranger one even than being in the bronze had been. For, while she had been bronzed, she was still aware of her body, aware of its existence, aware she could not move it, and aware that it did not function. Rather, she expected, like a quadriplegic. But this new form of suspended animation was total and complete, as if someone had shut off her brain and her body entirely, and then suddenly started her up again someplace new.

Helena sighed. “I must admit, however, that I do not understand how, precisely, we are seeing one another.”

“The marvels of modern technology,” said Mrs. Frederic, in that frustrating manner which implied she knew much more than that but would not divulge it. “The Regents requested to speak with you.”

Though Helena had been thoroughly questioned after her apprehension at Yellowstone, it seemed the Regents were not through with her. This proved to be only the first of many subsequent interrogations, though given her state, she was unable to say with any certainty how much time had passed in between each interview. In each case, Mrs. Frederic was the one to summon her, giving her warning of what was to follow.

Helena couldn’t help but wonder if the genie in the _Arabian Nights_ felt as she did, being brought forth each time to satisfy someone else’s demands.

After the third or fourth such summoning, Helena felt she had rather got used to the routine.

“The Regents have need of me once more, I take it?”

“No, Miss Wells,” said Mrs. Frederic. “We are going to pay a visit to Agent Bering.”

She proceeded to inform Helena that her actions at Yellowstone had resulted in Myka tendering her resignation, and removing herself from all Secret Service business by retiring to her father’s bookstore. “She is, I believe, in need of some convincing,” said Mrs. Frederic. “And I believe you are uniquely suited to provide exactly what she needs to hear.”

Helena thought of the matching apologies presented by their soulmarks, and found she knew very well what the Warehouse’s caretaker meant.

The next time she was brought into existence, then, she was prepared to see Myka Bering again—but she was not prepared for the fear Myka so clearly felt on seeing her, nor the tortured expression that crossed her face.

Mrs. Frederic assured Myka that Helena was not a danger to anyone, and then they were alone—in a manner of speaking.

“You hate me for what I did,” said Helena. And though she would have liked to continue in that vein, because there were many things left unsaid between them, she knew Mrs. Frederic had brought her here because Myka needed to return to the Warehouse—and talk of the two of them, of their relationship, of Helena’s betrayal of Myka’s confidence, would not get her the result she sought. So Helena kept it as general as she possibly could, explaining her actions through the lens of the bronze, of her pain and her anguish—and ending with a phrase that was, for her, something like a code: “Don’t walk away from your truth,” she said, and ostensibly, she meant working for the Warehouse, for yes, that was where Myka belonged. But it was also an apology, as weighty as the soulmark on Myka’s wrist: _I strayed from the path that was meant for me and it brought me nothing but despair, and for that I am truly sorry—for myself, and for you_.

This time, when Helena was returned to her suspended animation, it was with a heart—a metaphorical heart, of course, as she was well aware her actual heart was somewhere out in the world without her—much lighter, for she knew that Myka would, ultimately, go back to the Warehouse. Helena couldn’t be certain if she would go back immediately, that very day, or if it would take some time for her message truly to sink in, but she knew she had done what Mrs. Frederic asked of her. And, more than that, she had gotten her own message across—or at least she hoped she had.

* * *

At first, being back at the Warehouse, it was impossible not to think about Helena. Everywhere Myka turned, there was something to remind her—the morning paper, a book Helena was reading, a DVD still in the player that Pete had insisted Helena had to see, and just  _the whole goddamn Warehouse_ . All of Artie’s office and all of the machinery in the Warehouse was done up in the steampunk aesthetic Myka had come to associate with Helena. Hell, even Claudia’s room at the B &B was kind of steampunk-y. And of course, each little memory brought with it a quick stab of pain, reminding her first and foremost of what Helena had done, but then, gradually, as time went on, of what Myka was missing with Helena gone.

Maybe it was weird, but Myka started straightening her hair just because it reminded her of Helena. Maybe it was masochistic, too, but with Helena—wherever she was, there was no way to see her except in memories, and in the sharp lines of Myka’s soulmark.

After a while, though, Myka got used to it—kind of. Helena not being there, that is. It was just like when she first started working at the Warehouse, actually. Back then she was getting over Sam, now it was Helena, and it wasn’t so different, really; in the heat of a case Myka couldn’t let her own thoughts and feelings take precedence because in all the craziness of artifact hunting, it was actually almost impossible to let her emotions come before the whole _imminent death and/or massive destruction_ thing.

(Myka still couldn’t figure out how Pete had time to think about food so much while they were working. Then again, maybe it was because Pete seldom thought about much of anything at all, which was why _Myka_ had to do all the thinking.)

So she got used to it, and with time, instead of bringing her pain, each glimpse of her soulmark reminded her of the way Helena looked at her in the bookstore, how obviously _sorry_ she really was, and it became sort of reassuring. _Sorry_ would remind her that Helena was still out there somewhere—her consciousness or whatever, though Myka tried not to think too much about that meant for her _body_ —and that maybe, in another world, another life, they could have been something more to each other. And _Sorry_ reminded her that maybe, possibly, there was a future for them out there too, when they’d stop…needing all the apologies.

It seemed unlikely, but the idea was nice, anyway.

Point being, though Myka sometimes _liked_ to think about Helena, most of the time, she didn’t actually have the time to do so.

Until, suddenly, she and Pete were on a case, and it occurred to her that she needed Helena. For help. With the case. Because Myka had no other reasons to _want_ to see Helena, after all. Right?

Well, at least, as far as everyone else at the Warehouse was concerned, that was right. Myka still hadn’t told anyone about Helena being her soulmate—not even Pete. So she decided to suggest it to Artie, and Artie could talk to the Regents.

Then next thing she knew, the idea was on the table—literally. Myka could see the little orb thing that was…holding Helena or whatever. Pete was pissed with her for bringing it to Artie, yelled at her for it even, but Artie cut him off, saying the Regents had already made the decision, and then there was Helena, still so beautiful, even if she did look a little drab and kind of depressed. But then Myka supposed she had every reason to be depressed since she didn’t even have a body.

Myka had to school her face carefully when she looked at her because what if she gave herself— _them_ —away?

“You’re right, Myka, I do know what this is,” said Helena, and Myka was relieved that they were talking about the case and not about—everything else. But of course, Pete was still pissed, and Artie wasn’t too happy either, so the two of them and Helena had it out for a little while, but then they really _were_ talking about the case, and it was almost— _almost_ —like Myka could pretend Egypt had never happened, that Helena was still an agent and not in “limbo prison.” Helena confirmed it was Joshua’s Trumpet they were after—and then they learned that Jack and Rebecca had tracked it too, back in ’62.

It took some twists and turns, and some snarky comments from Pete about Helena that sort of ruined Myka’s fantasy that everything was normal, but eventually they tracked down the trumpet, and Helena saved the day, talking down the poor guy who was grieving his father, hoping to make contact with the “aliens” who sent the rocket that killed him. Without her, Myka knew, they never would’ve gotten through to him.

When it was all over, Myka finally had the chance to take Helena’s orb down to the Warehouse floor with her—alone. And as they put the trumpet away, Helena congratulated her on the snag. But that wasn’t what Myka wanted to talk to her about, now was it?

“We did make a good team. Didn’t we?” asked Helena.

“We did,” she replied with a smile. But it faltered as all the other things, all the memories, piled up in her mind. “And then you…” She sighed, not sure how to finish the sentence. Tried to destroy the world? Betrayed me? Ignored what we had, how good we were together, how we’re _soulmates_? It was really the last one that she felt most strongly at the moment, but she didn’t say it aloud. “I just wish you would’ve realized that sooner,” she said instead.

Helena didn’t hesitate. “So do I,” she answered, and they stared at one another for a long moment. Myka wanted to go on, wanted more than anything to touch Helena, to grab her hand, to touch her hair, something, but…Helena wasn’t _there_ , and anyway, Pete showed up and ruined the moment, and Myka knew it was time to say goodbye—maybe forever.

At least this time, they were parting after something good, not after…Egypt and Yellowstone and everything that came after.

Myka was just glad she’d been able to look Helena in the eye again, to say a proper goodbye. Even if that chance for them to be happy together never came, at least she would have that closure.


	4. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be honest: part of why I wrote this whole story was for this chapter, because I have always been fascinated with the idea that Emily Lake woke up in a body that isn't hers.

The room was white, and bare, and she didn’t recognize it—or the man sitting in front of her with the purple gloves and the Egyptian pin on his lapel. “Who are you?”

“I’m Mr. Kosan,” he said. He sounded foreign, but she wasn’t sure where from. “You had a terrible accident, and you lost your memory. But I’m going to help you get it back.”

“Thank you,” she said, folding her arms over her chest, more for reassurance than for anything else.

Mr. Kosan started explaining then, starting with her name, and this is what he laid out for her:

Her name was Emily Lake—Emily Hannah Lake. She was born in Omaha, Nebraska. She was a high school English teacher in Cheyenne, Wyoming, with an apartment, a cat named Dickens, and an old station wagon. Well, she _used_ to have an old station wagon, but her car got T-boned in an intersection while she was driving, which was the accident Mr. Kosan had mentioned. Because of the accident, Emily was suffering what the doctors said was “retrograde amnesia due to injury to the hippocampus.” (Emily didn’t know what that meant when she first heard it, but as with everything else, Mr. Kosan explained it to her, slowly, patiently, making sure she understood.)

Due to the brain damage, she’d lost memories of pretty much all of her past life. Mr. Kosan showed her pictures of people he said were her family and friends, but she didn’t recognize any of them. So she started memorizing things as best she could, learning the faces and the names Mr. Kosan told her about: her parents, Jerry and Karen (though her mom had passed a few years ago after struggling with breast cancer); her brother, Jim, and his wife Linda, and their two kids, Andy and Olivia; her sister, Liz; her best friend, Anne. It took her a while to get them all straight in her head, because things sometimes felt fuzzy, like her brain wasn’t used to the thoughts it was thinking.

When she had learned enough for her lack of memory not to be immediately shocking to the people who had known her before, Mr. Kosan informed her father that she was ready for visitors, and the next weekend, Jerry came to visit her in Cheyenne, showing up to her little room in the center with a box packed full of who knew what.

Emily didn’t know him, not really, but she could easily identify how tense he was, how wary. She was tense and wary too, because she’d been told that this man was her father, one of the people who’d raised her, but she had no memory of him. She got out of her chair by the window, and she went over to him, held out her hand to shake, and said, “Hi, Jerry,” because it seemed too weird to call someone she’d just met “dad.”

“Oh, it’s so good to see you,” he said, and he hugged her, and she didn’t really know what to do except hug him back, because she was supposed to be one of his kids, and he didn’t even have a wife left to talk to about the fact that his daughter didn’t remember him.

It was awkward, and a little bit uncomfortable, probably for both of them, but it was also kind of…nice, really, because Emily hadn’t really had all that much physical contact with people in this place.

Jerry pulled away, and Emily hugged herself instead as he turned away and took a moment for himself. When he looked back at her, his eyes were red, and she felt sort of guilty that she didn’t remember him.

“I…brought you some things,” he said, opening the box, and he started pulling out photo albums and knick-knacks and _books_.

“ _The Time Machine_ ,” she gasped, pulling the battered paperback from the box. “This is one of my favorites!” Emily didn’t remember people and events from her past, but she had vivid memories of all of her favorite books, mostly by nineteenth century authors: H.G. Wells, Jules Verne, Arthur Conan Doyle, Robert Louis Stevenson, Oscar Wilde, and, obviously, given the name of her cat, Charles Dickens. She didn’t remember _reading_ the books, couldn’t recall where she’d been when she’d first seen them, but she remembered the stories very clearly, the plots, the characters, the turns of phrase. The cover of this particular book didn’t even recall any memories, but as soon as she turned to the first page, the first words she read aloud gave her chills: “The Time Traveller (for so it will be convenient to speak of him) was expounding a recondite matter to us…” She stopped, a chill starting at her neck and running down her spine, raising goosebumps on her arms, and closed the book, staring at the cover again.

“I used to read it to you when you were a girl,” Jerry said.

Emily saw he still looked a little bit like he might cry, and suddenly, she felt a little bit like _she_ might cry, too. “Would you read it to me now?” she asked, pressing the paperback into his hands, and they shared a watery smile before making themselves comfortable, and Jerry picked up where she’d left off.

“His grey eyes shone and twinkled, and his usually pale face was flushed…”

It was a thing, from then on. Every weekend, Jerry would drive to Cheyenne from Omaha, and they’d spend most of their time together. Jerry was so kind, and so patient with her, that she wished more than anything that she remembered what it was like to have been raised by him.

Sometimes he would read to her—usually some Wells novel or other—or sometimes he’d tell her stories about the knick-knacks he’d brought, or sometimes they’d look at the photo albums and Jerry would tell her everything he could think of about the photographs and the people and places in them.

But no matter how many stories Jerry told her, Emily had a hard time reconciling the little girl in the pictures with the woman she saw in the mirror.

For one thing, the little girl looked _happy_ , something Emily had a hard time saying she herself was. For another, there were certain things—facial expressions, gestures—that she saw in the pictures that she never saw in herself, even when she tried to recreate them in front of a mirror. Almost like the little girl in the pictures—even the teenager in the awkward prom photos—wasn’t actually _her_ , but someone else, another person with dark eyes and dark hair who just looked, in the right light, very _like_ her.

The mysteries her own body presented her certainly didn’t help either. Her skin was marked and scarred, and Emily had no memories to account for them, so she found herself asking Jerry and Mr. Kosan for explanations. Jerry told her the scar on her knee was from a tumble she’d taken learning to ride a bike, and that the long-healed, puckered line across her thigh, which in her wilder moments Emily had imagined might be a wound from a knife, was actually a cut she’d gotten when her grandmother’s full-length mirror had toppled over, and the broken glass had cut her. She’d also imagined that the fresh pink scar on her shoulder was a bullet wound, but Mr. Kosan had assured her it was caused by a piece of shrapnel during her accident.

But the scars weren’t the only marks that drew Emily’s attention.

One of the first things she’d noticed when she’d woken up after accident—looked for, really—was a soulmark, because despite her lack of memories of experiences, she had a store of facts that she knew were accurate, and she knew that if she had a soulmark, then there was someone out there for her, waiting, and that even damaged as she was, she had a chance for happiness someday.

She found the soulmark pretty quickly, the dark ink stark against her pale skin, spelling out the words _Oh, sorry_. It was a relief to have a soulmark, not to be unmarked, but that brought its own questions: had she and her soulmate met already, before the accident? Was it a man or a woman? What did _their_ soulmark say?

Of course, those were normal questions to have, things she knew she must’ve wondered before, either all the way from birth, or from the time the mark showed up, indicating her soulmate had been born. She asked Mr. Kosan about her soulmark, and Jerry too, but all she learned was that she’d always had the mark; neither of them knew if they’d ever met.

That was okay, though. It meant there was still hope for her, so Emily was fine leaving that mystery unsolved.

One mystery, though, that she simply could not leave unsolved, was that of the stretch marks on her abdomen. There was only one explanation for them, really, but even if there weren’t, Emily just had a feeling, just _knew_ , that she had, at some point, had a child. Obviously something must’ve happened, either to her child or during the pregnancy, because Emily hadn’t seen any pictures of her with a baby, and nobody had said that her son or daughter was waiting for her to get better. She’d thought about asking Mr. Kosan about that, too, but it didn’t feel right to talk to him about something so personal. So naturally, there was only one other option.

“Jerry?” she asked, fingering a picture of her sister Liz when she was a baby, being held by Karen, the mother Emily—this Emily, the _after_ Emily—had never met.

“Hm?”

“When did I…” she sighed, bit her lip, and tried again. “I had a child. Before. Didn’t I?”

He shifted his glasses on his nose and looked away. “Yes.”

Hearing it confirmed hurt, and for a moment, it was all Emily could do just to breathe. But she pushed past the sudden fog in her mind, smoothing her fingers across the page of the photo album to ground herself. “What happened?”

For a long time, he didn’t respond, and the air was thick with the words he wasn’t saying. Emily wanted to press him for answers, but she didn’t feel comfortable pushing him to talk. It was probably painful, after all—the child she’d had would’ve been his grandchild.

Jerry took off his glasses, cleaning them on his sweater. Emily may not have known him for long, but she’d learned that he tended to do that when he didn’t want to talk about something, like he was just stalling for time, hoping the topic would change. But this was too important for her to let it go, so she let the silence stay, and become uncomfortable, waiting for him to say more. “She was stillborn,” he said finally, putting his glasses back on. He seemed somewhat faraway, but not actually that upset. “You were young, and you hadn’t planned to—”

“What was her name?” Because Emily _knew_ that the child had a name.

Jerry hesitated again, but not for nearly so long this time. “Christina,” he said, finally.

“Christina,” repeated Emily, quietly. The syllables, the shape of the name, felt right on her tongue.

And then she sighed, because knowing brought her pity—pity for her _before_ self, the woman who’d lost both a child, and her own mother, too. How sad she must have been!

Not that Emily considered herself wildly happy. How could she be, after having lost so much time, so many memories? But Jerry and Mr. Kosan were both helping her, giving her back pieces of her life, and for that, Emily was grateful.

That night, when she was getting ready for bed, she glimpsed the soulmark on her arm again— _Oh, sorry_ —and made a pledge to herself: that she would do her best to be happy, to be whole, so that when the two of them met, she would be in a good place to have a relationship with him—or her.

So she worked hard, putting the puzzle pieces back together so that she could go back to her apartment, to her cat, to her _life_ , and not be just some sad invalid who barely remembered her own name. And she must’ve impressed the staff at the center or something, because very soon, Mr. Kosan was telling her she was ready, that they’d helped her as much as they could, even down to finding her a fresh start at another school, Lincoln High, so she wouldn’t have to deal with any awkward fallout from her accident with students or parents or other teachers.

A fresh start, he said, and Emily thanked him for it.

Teaching made everything worth it—all of the frustration and the tears and the confusion she’d been through after the accident. It was worth it to have come out the other side, knowing more intimately how precious her life was. It made her cherish everything, made her more giving of herself and her time, helped her develop closer relationships with her students—especially the ones that she could see struggling, with school, with their social lives, with themselves. To make them feel more comfortable, to encourage them to talk to her, she put up a rainbow-colored “SAFE SPACE” sign in her classroom.

It was, honestly, partly for herself, too, because Emily just had this gut feeling that _Oh, sorry_ was a woman (in part because she’d never met a man with handwriting so meticulously neat), and she wanted to create that safe space for herself, too, especially amid the conservative bigotry that sometimes seemed to surround her in Cheyenne—and because of what she’d learned about the killing of that boy Matthew Shepard in nearby Laramie back in the 90’s.

Emily liked to think that she was, in some small way, contributing to making Lincoln High the sort of place where that wouldn’t happen.

Overall, her life was…nice. She had a new car and a comfortable apartment, a job she loved, a cat she loved (who she liked to think loved her, too, but you never could quite tell with cats), colleagues she respected who respected her, she and Jerry still met up on the weekends, and sometimes Emily and her best friend from before, Anne, would go out for dinner, or drinks, or a movie, even if it was strange at times since Emily didn’t remember the details of their friendship.

She was even starting, sort of, to try dating. Through one of those websites, of course, because she didn’t feel like she was ready yet to actually meet these people in person, to have to explain to them that she couldn’t share a whole lot of life stories because she had brain damage and couldn’t remember any of them. She liked sending casual messages back and forth, though, and there was even one woman she was considering going on a real date with—a brunette named Cindy with curly hair and laughing eyes.

She was comfortable, and she was safe, and with structure and repetition, she felt like she was slowly getting past the giant setback that was her accident.

Until a woman she didn’t know walked into her classroom and called her “Helena,” and all of Emily’s careful work to get to a good place went right out the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things about this chapter. First, in case you were curious, Jerry is the guy with gray hair and glasses in a couple of the photos on Emily's wall. I imagine he's either one of the Regents himself, or was paid by them to act as Emily's father. You can choose whichever option you like better.
> 
> Second, it was a deliberate choice to have the "child" that "Emily" had be named Christina. I don't think even the Regents would be cruel enough to keep that from her if she asked directly the way she did.
> 
> And finally, I considered the possibility of having Emily wake up with _two_ soulmarks: Helena's mark for Myka, and a second mark, also for Myka (which would have said "Helena?"). But I'm of the opinion that Emily Lake is, in some way, a part of Helena; Helena with bits and pieces taken out, where other parts then grew to fill in the gaps. That said, if someone else wants to run with the idea that Emily Lake has two soulmarks, I would read the hell out of that.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus begins the angst that is known as Emily Lake/Stand. Brace yourselves.

For possibly the first time ever, Pete hadn’t just been sitting back thinking about food.

“Walter Sykes, paralyzed as a child, gets his hands on the Collodi Bracelet, which allows him to walk again, but apparently, it turns him into like, the worst guy ever,” he said, gesturing at the board he’d put together in the Pete Cave, and then proceeding the prove he really had been thinking, and that agreeing with his mom (her being one of the Regents was still one of the weirdest revelations of Myka’s Warehouse career, and that was saying something) was just a way to shut her up and get them out of there to do their own strategizing.

Claudia got in on it too, cracking some of the Regents’ super-secret file, and soon Pete and Myka were headed to Cheyenne, Wyoming, with Pete blasting classic rock in the car for the whole two hour drive, but for once, Myka found she didn’t mind. Probably because it felt so good to be _doing_ something about the whole Sykes situation instead of sitting back and waiting for orders like Jane had told them to.

They pulled up in the parking lot of Lincoln High and split up, Myka going upstairs while Pete checked out the downstairs. And very shortly, Myka figured out why they were there—and it wasn’t an artifact.

Helena Wells was standing in a classroom, hugging one of the high school students, wearing, of all things, a skirt, a floral blouse, and a three quarter length _cardigan_ , for god’s sake.

“She broke out of Regent jail to come _here_?” asked Pete dubiously.

“I wanna go talk to her,” murmured Myka, and as Pete warned her to be careful, to wait for him to approach her, she couldn’t help herself. She was drawn in like a magnet. “Helena?”

“Hello,” said Helena, not sounding like Helena at all. “Are you looking for somebody?”

The only thing Myka could think to say was, “Do the Regents know you’re here?”

From there, it quickly became clear that this woman, this Emily Lake, whoever the hell that was, was _not_ H.G. Wells. For one thing, she seemed to have no idea who Myka was. For another, there was no way in hell Helena would ever react to Pete pointing a gun at her by squealing and darting under the nearest piece of furniture.

The evidence just kept piling up, though, as H.G.’s doppelganger took them to her tidy little apartment, and they found out she lived there alone with a cat. First of all, a _cat_? Really? And second, Helena wasn’t that neat. Her bedroom at the B &B more closely resembled a workshop than a bedroom, with books and papers and bits and pieces of inventions and regular household appliances partially constructed—or deconstructed—on almost every available flat surface.

“Bills, magazines,” muttered Myka, sifting through the small pile of mail on the table. “They’re all addressed to Emily Lake.”

“Okay, so she fooled the post office. It’s not that hard to do,” Pete retorted, obviously trying to talk her down. (Even if she hadn’t told him they were soulmates, Myka was aware that Pete knew how much she cared about Helena. Cared _for_ her.) “Myka, don’t buy this. She is a lunatic killer and she’s just—she’s hiding it somehow.”

Myka had been thinking something similar, but just then, staring at the pictures on Emily’s wall, she realized something, pulling down one of the photos and drawing Pete’s attention to the missing reflection in the mirror that proved Helena’s body had merely been photoshopped into the frame. “These—these are all fakes! Somebody must have created a, a new identity for her. Who does that sound like to you?”

It had to be the Regents, of course, but before they could follow that trail of thought much further, Pete got a vibe, and Myka hurried the other woman—Emily—out the door. “Is there a second set of stairs?” Myka asked, and Emily nodded and pointed down the hall in the opposite direction from the way they had come.

“The emergency exit. It’s that way.”

“Let’s go,” said Myka, grabbing Emily’s hand without thinking and pulling her along behind her, into the second stairwell and down the stairs, into the parking garage below the apartment building. “Where does the other stairwell come out?”

“Over here,” Emily said, and this time she led the way with Myka following.

They were still holding hands when someone stepped out from behind a support column, elbowed Myka in the gut, and grabbed her Tesla from the holster under her arm. That alone was a clue to Myka that her assailant was someone she knew, because how would a stranger have known where to look for her weapon?

Emily, perhaps predictably, squealed and ducked behind Myka, and when Myka straightened back up, she realized it was because someone was pointing the Tesla at them. And not just anyone.

“Steve,” she gasped, still trying to get her breath back to normal after he’d hit her. “You’re working for Sykes?”

He didn’t say anything, just looked at her placidly and kept the Tesla pointed at her chest.

“You don’t have to do this,” she said, holding up her hands, trying to placate him.

“I do, Myka,” he answered, his lips actually curling into a slight smile. She half expected him just to Tesla her and get it over with.

“Just tell me something,” replied Myka, licking her lips and glancing over her shoulder at Emily, who had emerged, somewhat, from behind her back. “Why H.G.? What does Sykes want with Helena?”

“You know I can’t tell you that.” Myka sighed, and was about to try another tactic when Steve spoke up again. “Where’s Pete? I assume he’s here with you somewhere.”

Wasn’t this just her luck? First Helena turned out to be a villain, and now Steve, too? Since he obviously didn’t want to be convinced he was making a mistake in working for Sykes, Myka frowned at him. “He’s here,” she admitted, and then, because she was still hoping Steve would reconsider his options, she added, “Probably taking care of your partner right now.”

Sure enough, a few moments later, Pete came jogging through the doorway into the garage. “Hey. You guys okay?”

And then, as if Myka had needed more proof of what was going on, what Sykes was after, Marcus showed up and asked if Emily was H.G., and when Steve confirmed it…well, the next thing Myka knew, she was waking up to the Farnsworth buzzing, and Artie making his angry face at them, and Emily Lake was nowhere to be seen, and the best thing they could think of to do was meet back at the Warehouse to regroup.

Pete didn’t get to blast any music for the next two hours, that was for damn sure.

The rendezvous at the Warehouse proved enlightening, explaining how it was that Emily Lake had existed in Helena’s body while Helena’s consciousness had been suspended. Something called the Janus Coin, apparently, and obviously if Sykes had Helena’s body, the next thing he’d want was the coin to put the two pieces back together, so next they were off to—a grocery store, apparently.

Once they had the orb, Claudia “rebooted” its Janus Coin hard drive, and then—

“Oh, hello,” said Helena, seeming very surprised—and pleased—to see them, not at all like the last time they’d called her up, when she’d looked so depressed. “What’s this then? Another mission?”

“Lady,” said Pete, “we’ve got a lot to tell you.”

They recapped the situation, and as entertaining as it was to see Helena freak out about the fact that her body had been out in the world “living with a cat in Wyoming,” they still had no idea why Sykes needed her for his plan, which was not encouraging. Even less encouraging—downright _devastating_ , really—was Pete’s idea for how to stop it all.

“She has one of the greatest minds in history!” snapped Myka. “It’s—it would be like burning down a library. With a friend trapped inside!”

Pete wanted to _kill_ her, but Myka wouldn’t have it. He wanted to kill Helena, her _soulmate_. The words were right there on her tongue, and she wanted nothing more than to shout them in his face, to tell him what, exactly, she would lose if they went through with his massively stupid, _idiotic_ plan.

But Helena cut in before she could. “May I offer an opinion?” she asked, and Myka felt her heart seize in her chest, because just from the tone of her voice she could already tell what it was Helena had decided.

“You’d be gone,” Myka protested, weakly, because she could feel the defeat settling on her shoulders. “You’d be—you’d be dead,” she added, looking Helena in the eye, wanting to impress upon her just what that meant—for her, for _them_. But also knowing that everything she felt for Helena was written all over her face, clearly legible in her own eyes, and that Claudia was standing just behind Helena…Myka turned away. “The price is too high.”

Pete and Helena, though, they obviously agreed that they needed to destroy the coin, and though Myka could see Claudia struggling against tears, she looked like she thought it was the right thing to do, too. The odds were stacking up higher and higher, and not in Myka’s favor. Helena wanted to sacrifice herself. Which, Myka had to admit, made a twisted sort of sense; if the Minoan Trident had been an excuse to die while taking the rest of the world with her, then this was another excuse to die—for a _good_ cause. Maybe she thought it would help even out the scale, to make up for her selfishness at Yellowstone.

“Myka, we have to think rationally, not emotionally,” said Helena, stepping closer, looking into her eyes, and it made something inside of Myka both grow and shrivel at the same time, because Helena was finally, _finally_ , saying something that indicated that she had a real, true emotional attachment to Myka, that she didn’t really want to leave her, and that all of it— _Sorry, Oh, sorry_ —was real. But at the same time…

“And quickly,” Helena added. “Before I remember that I’m not this noble.”

Well, at least she was acknowledging also that not every part of her wanted to do this.

Pete agreed to be the one to do the actual—destroying, and Helena started saying her goodbyes. Myka looked away, wanting, trying to deny everything that was happening, but Helena turned back to her.

“How do you say goodbye to the one person who knows you better than anyone else?” she asked.

“I wish I knew,” replied Myka, arms folded over her chest, wishing she could _do_ something, touch Helena, maybe—kiss her, even. But Helena wasn’t _real_ , wasn’t even really _there_. And as Myka’s eyes glided over the familiar sharp planes of her face, the cut of her jaw, the fall of her hair, the way her lips curled as she spoke…

“Be brave,” said Helena, her voice tight, and Myka couldn’t stop the tear that slid down her face. “I need your strength.” Then Helena stepped back, grasped for the locket that wasn’t really there, and tilted her face up. “The last thing I want to see is the sky.”

Myka was grateful, so grateful, that she wasn’t the one holding the orb, because she would never have been able to turn Helena off, would never have been able to—

“I can’t watch this,” said Myka, striding away, and Claudia said she couldn’t either, and wrapped up together, they headed back for the car, crying together.

“I can’t believe she’s going to just be—gone,” said Claudia, reaching up to rub at her cheeks. “I mean I know she was never here or whatever, but—”

“I know,” said Myka, and though she wasn’t a touchy-feely kind of person, she pulled Claudia in for a hug, trying to comfort herself as much as Claudia, who sniffled into her ear and hugged her back fiercely.

And god, did Myka ever _know_. Like Claudia never would. Because they weren’t talking about Claudia’s soulmate, were they?

As they pulled apart, Myka looked down at her wrist, at Helena’s writing there, and she stroked the pad of her thumb over it once, gently. _Sorry_.

God was she ever sorry right then.

But there was no flash of light from the other side of the car, where Pete was— _getting rid of the Janus Coin_ , she refused to think of what he was doing any other way, and there was no noise, either. No sound of rocks bashing together. Nothing. Until...

“Why can’t I move?” said Pete.

“Because I’m controlling your body now,” came the answer—most certainly _not_ Pete, and Myka gave Claudia a wide-eyed look, drew her service weapon, and hurried around the side of the car, through the trees, pointing the gun at Marcus.

“Traitor!” called Claudia, her voice raw, the hurt obviously even worse coming on the heels of—what had almost happened just then.

Myka turned the gun on Steve, to stop him, determined that if they weren’t going to destroy the coin, then at least that Sykes wouldn’t get what he wanted, wouldn’t be able to put the two pieces of Helena back together again. She would preserve the status quo, keep Helena alive, both parts of her—

Until Marcus flexed the artifact in his hands, and something hit Myka in the head, _hard_ , and she went down.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters just seem to keep getting longer...

Saying goodbye to Myka could not have been harder. Being stored on the Janus Coin was, at that moment, one of the most frustrating, horrific things that could’ve happened to Helena, because it meant that now, at the end, she wouldn’t get to say goodbye the way she wanted to, wouldn’t be able to express what was in her heart—not because they were in front of Pete and Claudia, because honestly Helena didn’t give a damn if they knew, but because she didn’t have a physical body with which to hold Myka, to kiss her, to assure her that everything between them was real, and not imagined, that they could have been so much more than what they were to one another already.

But since she couldn’t proceed with any of those things, her eyes flitted down to Myka’s wrist and then back up to her face, and she plead with Myka to be brave, for someone in this moment needed to be strong—and facing her own demise, this time at the hands of another, she felt anything but.

She turned away from Myka, from her soulmate, her destiny, and looked up at the sky, intending for that to be the last thing on Earth she would ever see—its vastness, its beauty.

But instead, she opened her eyes, and she found herself staring at a blonde man in a wheelchair, fully aware once again of her body, which, she suddenly realized, was holding the Janus Coin.

It was smaller than she had expected.

But seeing the Janus Coin clutched in her hand meant that Emily Lake no longer existed.

“It would appear you got to the coin before Pete could destroy it,” she said, looking at the man in the wheelchair again. “You must be Mr. Sykes.”

He held up a glass of water, and for a moment, Helena hesitated, remembering being unable to touch anything—artifacts, railings, car doors, _Myka_ —and then he pressed the glass into her hand, and she marveled at the coolness of the glass on her skin, of the water in her mouth.

She was free of the Regents’ prison, but at the cost of service to a villain.

A villain not unlike herself, she was sure.

Except—she had changed, had she not? Certainly there was still a part of her that believed death would be a welcome state over the suffering she had lived through, and the suffering she herself had caused, but she had ascertained from the look on Myka’s face in the woods that she wanted Helena, alive and in her life, as much as Helena wanted to be in Myka’s. They were soulmates, and they were both aware of this fact, both _needed_ that connection to be real. But the only way they would ever have a future together was if Helena could foil his plans from the inside. Then she would be helping Myka, and the others as well, to defeat this new threat to the Warehouse, and perhaps, she would, in some small way, redeem herself for her deplorable, cowardly actions—in Egypt and Yellowstone, yes, but also for all the lies and infinitesimal betrayals that had come before.

But before she could put in place the “stiff upper lip” attitude, before she could wipe away the tears she could feel on her face—Emily’s tears—Sykes thanked Steve, turned his wheelchair to leave, and nodded at the tall one, Marcus, who pushed Steve into a chair and jabbed a needle into his neck, so quickly neither Steve nor Helena had time to protest. Within moments, Steve was gone.

And Sykes hadn’t even watched him die.

Marcus, still holding the syringe, gestured for Helena to leave the room. As she stood, smoothing her skirt, she realized her hands were shaking—with shock, yes, but also with rage. Rage for Steve, who had been a friend and colleague to Myka and the other Warehouse agents, his life snuffed out so quickly, so unceremoniously.

If what Pete and Myka had said was true, and Marcus had walked away from a five-story fall, Mr. Diamond wouldn’t be killed by anything she did to him.

But that didn’t mean she couldn’t hurt him.

She let the rage go, surprising Marcus with an attack that he hadn’t seen coming—not from her. She jabbed the heel of her hand into his nose, followed with her knee into his stomach, and then turned his momentum against him, grabbing his arm and swinging him around until he landed, hard, on the ground, his nose bleeding onto the floor. “You are a truly deplorable creature,” she murmured into his ear, pressing her knee into his shoulder blade as she pushed his arm forward, effectively, and painfully, pinning him to the floor. “And that means a lot, coming from me.”

“M-miss Wells?” called the young man who’d come to inform them the plane was ready.

“Coming, darling,” she called back, giving Marcus’ arm one more painful twist for effect. “That one was for Claudia,” she added to Marcus, abruptly letting go of him, standing, and walking out the door.

Feeling much more herself now, she traipsed down the stairs to find Sykes’ young lackey waiting for her.

“If Mr. Sykes expects me to help him,” she said, glancing down at her wardrobe—which was _hideous_ , did her other self really have such terrible taste?—and adding, “I’ll need some fresh clothes.”

“I—I think there’s a bag waiting for you on the plane,” he replied, gesturing towards the aircraft waiting for them at the open hangar door.

“Thank you,” she said, sparing him a smile as she climbed the waiting steps. “So very thoughtful.”

Sykes was already waiting for them on the plane, buckled into a chair which appeared far more comfortable than the economy seats Helena had experienced on the Warehouse’s dime. She said nothing to him, though, simply breezed past him to the duffle bag waiting on one of the seats in the next row. She strapped herself into one of the chairs and drew the bag into her lap, examining its contents: black pants, ankle boots, a white jersey shirt, a brown leather jacket and, atop all of it, two welcome surprises: the perfume she preferred, a light scent of jasmine, and her locket, complete with its small, antique picture of Christina.

How they had come by that particular piece, Helena didn’t want to know, but she was happy to have it, and wasted no time in fastening the locket about her neck.

Once they were airborne, she took to the plane’s small bathroom and changed into her new clothes, feeling considerably more at ease once she’d shed the clothes her body had worn which had, nonetheless, belonged to another person—a person who was now quite as dead as Mr. Jinks.

Helena spared a thought for all the students who had loved their teacher.

For the duration of the flight, she pointedly stayed in the row behind Sykes, saying not a single word—neither to him, nor to his lackey Tyler, who seemed genuinely afraid of the man. Although, given how swiftly Sykes had disposed of Steve, Helena supposed Tyler had every reason to fear him.

Still, she had no notion of why he needed her, and she spent the greater part of the flight trying to determine the answer to that question. Finally, when they arrived, and were on their way to their mystery destination with Tyler driving, Helena couldn’t bear not knowing any longer.

Something to do with Caturanga, apparently—a lock he had designed which Sykes believed Helena would be able to _un_ lock. Helena herself, however, was unsure she would be up to the task. After all, in all her years at Warehouse 12, he had always been two steps ahead of her. With the Tesla, with chess, with who to partner her with to avoid any distractions posed by her latest dalliance. Whatever this lock turned out to be, it seemed unlikely to her that she would be able to solve it.

When she was finally faced with the lock, she was certain she wouldn’t be able to master it. And judging from the pile of bones to one side, and the wicked-looking axe embedded in the mechanism, her inability to do so would likely end in more blood on her hands—only this time, it was not a death of her choosing, but rather one she felt utterly powerless to stop, especially with Sykes controlling her body, forcing her to point the gun to Tyler’s head.

Even if the lock didn’t kill him, a gunshot certainly would.

But sure enough, Tyler moved the king as Helena had directed—had _guessed_ —and the lock engaged, the axe dropping neatly down into his skull.

It was, Helena had to admit, a terribly clever trap.

Before she fully had time to grasp what had happened, Sykes gave the riding crop a twist that jerked her body—painfully, and wholly against her will—towards the entrance to the sanctum, her finger pulling the trigger on the gun in her hand, pointed— _oh god_ —right at Myka.

“Myka are you all right?” cried Helena.

“No,” answered Myka quickly. “No, I—I’m fine.”

Helena would’ve sagged with relief, but the crop held her body stiffly at attention, the gun still pointed at Myka, dear Myka.

Oh god, if Sykes made her shoot Myka again, for real this time…

Pete and Myka put down their guns, and Pete dragged Tyler’s body out of the chair towards the pile of bones, Helena’s weapon trained on him all the while to ensure his compliance.

If they managed to survive this, Helena was determined to be the one to put Cecil B. DeMille’s riding crop on the shelves of the Warehouse.

Sykes, in true villain fashion, was pleased to explain the situation to them, ending in Tyler’s death.

“You did that!” cried Helena. “I tried to stop you!” And then, looking from Myka to Pete and then back, begging for them to understand her, to believe that she wasn’t willingly working for Sykes, that she had changed, she added, “I swear it.”

Sykes seemed to realize then, must have picked up on the desperation in Helena’s eyes, the hope that Myka believed she was not, truly, a villain. “Maybe I used the wrong incentive,” he said, and for a split second she could see the wicked glee in his expression, before her body jerked again, her hand closing around Myka’s throat, forcing her into the chair at the chessboard. “Now that there’s someone in the chair that you care about,” said Sykes, gazing at the crop, “maybe your memory will come back.”

The blood disappeared from the chessboard, and Helena thought, fleetingly, about Emily Lake and how she hadn’t _had_ any memories. But then Sykes bent the crop again, and her body whirled to aim the gun at Pete.

(Helena was, inwardly, somewhat relieved; having Sykes force her body to shoot Pete would be much more bearable than being forced to shoot Myka.)

“How do we beat it?” asked Pete.

“It was Caturanga’s passion,” murmured Helena. “We played every day for years.”

“You beat him all the time?”

“Not once,” she replied, stomach churning. Because if she couldn’t crack the lock—oh god, what a poor choice of words—then Myka would die, and it would be her fault.

Helena had never wanted that. Not once. Not even in the depth of her madness. It was what had brought her to her knees at Yellowstone, facing the idea that Myka’s death would be her fault.

She had to solve this.

She considered what she had tried before, and came up with a new strategy—only to have the lock click ominously, the wheels and gears bringing the axe blade down a partial turn. But it was only the first attempt, the first of the three steps, so Helena had Myka proceed, and again, the lock clanged. With the blade fully extended, hanging above Myka’s head, the tear already welling in Myka’s eye spilled over, and Helena found herself apologizing, _again_ , to the woman who truly did know her better than anyone else.

“Helena, listen to me,” said Myka, firmly. “I am not going to die here today, okay, because you are going to take a breath…and you’re gonna save my life.”

Helena stared into Myka’s eyes, seeing fear, yes, but also hope, and a trust she had done nothing to earn.

She did as Myka asked; she took a breath, and she considered their options.

And a memory came to her: Caturanga, showing her the first version of a Tesla ever carried by a Warehouse agent. “When the rules do not agree with one,” he’d said, “it is sometimes necessary to change them.”

“Change the rules,” she gasped, understanding dawning on her as she looked at Myka, at the chessboard, at the lock with its deadly axe hanging over Myka’s head. “Change the rules!” So she instructed Myka to make a move that was, strictly speaking, not a _legal_ move in chess. But with tears on both their faces, Helena repeated the words, nodding at Myka, encouraging that very same trust which she did not deserve.

Myka grasped the piece, moved it as Helena directed—and the gears above her head whirred and clanged again, the blade withdrawing back into its neutral position, and the collar on the chair holding Myka in place releasing, allowing Myka to get out of the chair and come straight for Helena, throwing an arm around Helena’s shoulders and pressing herself close in an embrace made awkward by the fact that Helena had no control over her body, and was being forced once again to aim her gun at Pete.

“Thank you,” whispered Myka, pulling away as the room began to shake, bits of stone falling from the roof, the chess pieces colliding and tumbling off the board. One wall of the sanctum began to glow, drawing Sykes’ attention, and Pete took advantage of the distraction, launching himself at her and knocking the gun out of her hands.

It was something of a relief, honestly, when Sykes turned the crop on Pete instead of her; it was nice to have her body back, not to have Sykes forcing it to twist and bend and shoot a bloody _gun_. But poor Pete was suffering it now, his body wrenching against its will, his hands drawing his Tesla and turning it on them.

But the Tesla must’ve been set on low, because Helena woke again a few moments later, lying atop Myka, and the wall of the sanctum was still glowing. Through it, she could see Sykes in his chair, Pete behind him, and, though it was hard to make out, Artie and Jane facing them.

But of course, as soon as she got herself together, got her feet under her and launched herself towards the portal to follow them through—the glittering, shifting light shrank and went out.

“They must’ve shut it down from the other side,” she said, running her hands along the wall, searching for cracks or crevices or any remaining irregularities that might indicate they could still pass through into the Warehouse.

But nothing was to be found.

“Damn it,” growled Myka, bashing the side of her fist against the wall.

“Calm down, Myka,” said Helena, covering Myka’s hand with her own. “The lock reset itself when you sat in the chair, so perhaps that is all that’s required to start from the beginning.”

Myka looked at her incredulously, removing her hand and taking a step back. “You want to go through that again? Personally, I did not enjoy sitting underneath a death trap waiting to have my skull cracked open!”

“It’s not a—a trap,” said Helena with a sigh, stepping away and bending to grab one of the chess pieces that had rolled away from the chessboard during the tremors. “It’s a lock. And now that we know how to open it, there’s no danger involved.” She set the piece back on the table, and, believing the game would begin anew as soon as it had another player in place, seated herself at the chessboard. But the collar didn’t engage around her neck; in fact, nothing happened at all. “It didn’t work,” she said dumbly. “I was certain it would work.”

“There’s gotta be another way to open this,” said Myka, running a hand through her hair. “I just—I have to think.”

But either Myka could think of no other way, or needed more time to come up with an answer, for she joined Helena at the chessboard and started collecting pieces from the floor.

“Myka?” asked Helena, feeling overwhelmed by the situation. “I’m sorry,” she added.

Myka hesitated for the tiniest fraction of a second, and Helena swore she saw her press her left thumb to her soulmark. “About what?”

“You—you should’ve destroyed the Janus Coin the moment you found it. Then I wouldn’t have caused all this.” She waved a hand in the air in a motion that took in the Regent Sanctum, the chess lock, the wall Sykes and Pete had passed through into the Warehouse. All of it truly was her fault. If she hadn’t done what she did with the Minoan Trident, she never would’ve ended up having her consciousness separated out onto the coin, and Tyler—poor boy—would still be alive.

“I wish you would stop doing that,” said Myka, looking at the chessboard instead of at her.

“Doing what?” asked Helena, confused. What was Myka talking about? The apologizing? Because Helena was starting to tire of it herself.

“You’re not the bad guy, okay?” Myka said, her eyes snapping up to Helena’s. “I believed in you, and I was right. So get off your—your cross, and help me figure this out!”

Helena stared at Myka for a long moment, a noise of surprise coming from her own mouth. Myka thought she was simply…acting the martyr? Helena supposed she could see where Myka might think so, given how Helena had all but demanded to be sacrificed back in the woods, but in this case that wasn’t what she had meant at all.

Or was it?

Either way, Myka had a point. They had a puzzle to solve, just as they always had, so she looked away, smiled, and said, “Righty-ho then.” As she helped Myka place the pieces on the board, she couldn’t resist the urge to add, “Old times, Wells and Bering, solving puzzles, saving the day.”

Myka popped up from where she had bent to grab another piece off the ground. “Bering and Wells,” she corrected, and she and Helena shared a smile.

“Alphabetical then, is it?” asked Helena, smiling down at the chessboard as she sorted through the pieces.

“Of course,” Myka replied. “Why, would you rather it be by age?”

Helena laughed, truly laughed, and for a long, quiet moment, they simply smiled and worked to gather all the pieces they needed to reset the lock. Once they were both certain they had them all, Helena went to set the board, but almost immediately, Myka stopped her.

“That’s not right. It was D-3, not C-3,” she said, taking the pawn and moving it to the correct space.

“No, it was most certainly—”

Myka grasped Helena’s hand, stopping her from reaching for the piece she had just moved. “I was the one sitting in that chair about to be killed, if you remember. I know which ones you asked to me to move, and from where.”

Looking up at Myka, Helena suddenly felt that she needed to set something straight, needed to speak some truth, needed to…clarify, in some way, where they stood with one another. And for the first time, there was no Artie, no Pete in the way, nothing to stop her, so she twisted her hand in Myka’s until their hands were clasped, and gave Myka’s palm a squeeze. “Thank you, darling,” she said quietly. “For believing in me.”

“I’ve always believed in you,” Myka answered, wrapping her other hand around Helena’s as well, squeezing back. “And in us.”

Helena laughed, but the sound was bitter, self-deprecating, because Helena had never believed in them—and certainly not in herself. She had been out of her mind with grief, had plotted the destruction of the world, had barely given more than a passing thought to the possibility that if she didn’t go through with her plan, that she and Myka might be truly happy. “Yes, well, I suppose someone had to, and it certainly wasn’t me.”

Myka squeezed Helena’s hand again, and didn’t let go until Helena looked up, until their eyes locked. “Right now we don’t have the time, but we’ll talk about this, okay? Later.” And then, with a smile, she added, “After we save the world.”

Helena gave her an answering, if shaky, smile, and repeated “Righty-ho then.”

Together they finished setting the chessboard, and the minute the last piece was in place, the collar on the chair clamped around Helena’s neck, holding her fast. Myka, for her part, stood aside, arms folded, glancing nervously at the mechanism holding the axe as Helena pursued the same strategy as before, until the lock finally disengaged.

“Well, that’s a relief,” she said, smiling up at Myka, who held out a hand to help her up, and then, to Helena’s surprise, pulled her into a quick embrace.

“C’mon,” Myka said, still holding Helena’s hand, pulling her towards the glowing wall of the sanctum.

They emerged out onto the Warehouse floor, joining up with Artie and the others to help defeat Sykes. After a close call with the rigging rope from the Mary Celeste, they got word from Pete that Sykes was dead, turned to dust in the portal.

But the alarm was still blaring, which meant the danger to the Warehouse was not over.

And then they found the bomb in Sykes’ wheelchair.

The group repaired to the Ovoid Quarantine to try and afford the rest of the Warehouse some protection from the blast, but as soon as they entered, Helena saw the electrical box on the wall, and, knowing there wasn’t much time left on the bomb’s countdown clock, went straight for it, considering what she knew of the Warehouse’s defense systems.

The barrier created by the Remati shackle had to have some sort of power source grounded within the Warehouse—likely the Warehouse’s own electrical grid, since if it was strong enough to power her time machine, it was likely strong enough to power the barrier as well.

Which meant that, if Helena could tap into the power grid, manipulate it a bit, she might be able to redirect some portion of the barrier.

Pete and Myka and Artie had apparently given up trying to neutralize the bomb, which made it all the easier for Helena to reroute the barrier—around all three of them.

“Helena, what is this?” asked Myka, wide-eyed, from behind the safety of the barrier.

Succumbing once more to the fate they two shared, the seemingly never-ending apologies Helena found herself making to Myka, she apologized once more. “It was the only way I could think of to save you,” she said.

“What have you done?” Myka looked devastated, but Helena grasped at the opportunity given her, explaining the technicalities of what she had done simply because—because it was easier than saying what was in her heart.

“But you…you’re out there,” Myka continued, still obviously unable to come to terms with what Helena had done, faced now as she was with the notion that Helena had willingly sacrificed herself—and not _for the good of the world_ , or even necessarily for the good of the _Warehouse_ , but for Myka herself. Myka only.

Pete and Artie started clamoring from within, protesting what Helena had done, that she was going to die because of Sykes…while Myka said nothing, just stared at Helena in disbelief and gratitude and—did Helena dare believe?—love.

Ignoring the others, Helena mouthed a quiet “thank you,” to Myka, who smiled, painfully, back at her.

And then, to her own surprise, a sudden smell of apples came to her; the Warehouse giving _her_ thanks, absolving her of all wrongdoing.

When the end came in a flash of light, Helena was smiling, knowing Myka would live and feeling, for the first time in many, many years, truly free of all the burdens and grief she had been carrying.


	7. Chapter 7

Myka couldn’t watch when the time came. Helena had left herself outside the barrier, had willingly given her life for Myka’s—Myka was under no illusion that it was for any other reason than that, not this time—and Myka just…couldn’t watch her die. So Helena thanked her from the other side of the barrier, and Myka looked away, just as she had with the Janus Coin, because she couldn’t bear to see the other piece of her soul disappear into the ether.

Even with the barrier, the explosion was deafening, and Myka couldn’t help but feel that it was perfect accompaniment for her heart breaking.

When the explosion was over, when the danger was over, the barrier flickered and dissolved, and she, Pete, and Artie were left alone, surrounded by the wreckage of the Warehouse—and a ring around their feet that showed where the barrier had stopped.

But despite the devastation, despite the pervasive, acrid smoke that crawled into her lungs with every breath, all Myka could think about was Helena.

Helena, who was gone.

Until Pete brought up the watch, and Myka’s mind snapped back into the present, into her body, shutting down her emotional centers and disregarding the tears that had left tracks on her face. It was easier, simpler, to revert to the version of herself from before Helena, from after Sam, when she was all work all the time.

But there was a selfishness to it, as well: the idea that bringing the Warehouse back as it had been before would bring Helena back with it.

It was hard to stay focused, to think about work and the Warehouse, though, when they went back to the B&B and exchanged stories with Claudia and Leena. Faced with Mrs. Frederic’s death on top of Helena’s, Myka couldn’t stop the tears. She thought of Helena, of that last smile Helena had given her, of the tears they’d both shared back in the Regents’ Sanctum, and, oh god, of the talk about _them_ that Myka had promised her, which now they’d never have.

She sank into the nearest chair and she cried, and she sniffled, and she rubbed snot on her jacket which somehow smelled a little bit like Helena under the smoke, like jasmine and machinery. And she rubbed her thumb into her soulmark, hard enough to bruise, until Claudia, in true pessimist fashion, tried to argue that none of it mattered because Steve was dead, Mrs. Frederic was dead, Helena was dead.

“I know,” snapped Myka, lifting her head to glare at Claudia. “I watched her die.”

If only Claudia knew what Helena’s death meant to her—what _Helena_ meant to her, had _been_ to her.

“But every day, people die,” Myka added, softer this time, partly for Claudia, and partly for herself. “Sometimes it’s people that we care about, and sometimes it’s even people that we love.” She paused, glanced down at her wrist, and finished, “We just need to make sure we’re not being selfish.”

Leena spoke up then, and they all went into the other room to check the TV, to find that terrible things were happening across the country, and for a while, Myka allowed herself to do what she was usually so good at: to compartmentalize, to be in the moment and not in the past, and to think about the case—and not herself, and not Helena.

They jetted off to France, fought their way through some members of the Brotherhood of the Black Diamond, and recovered an astrolabe—Magellan’s Astrolabe, to be specific. Or part of it, at least. And then they ran afoul of some trap, and, damn it, had to leave Claudia behind, stuck in—whatever it was, while they went to Rome to look for the other piece of the astrolabe.

Only once they got there, the police were out in force, there were fires and craziness every which way they turned, and some very angry woman _really_ did not want to let them inside the restaurant where the tunnel into the Vatican was.

Myka only saw one way out of this, so she grabbed a chair from in front of the restaurant, bashed in the window, and waved genially at the few employees left inside the restaurant, who promptly ran outside to chase her down. She did her best to evade them, but she still ended up handcuffed and pushed into the back of a police car.

At first, she felt victorious, having succeeded in drawing away the cops, but after she was locked into the car, said cops turned and left, and Myka was stuck in a police car in Rome, staring at a line of fires outside. Alone in the dark, she felt the hopelessness crashing down on her, the tears rising back to the surface, Helena’s death coming back to the forefront...but she latched on to the idea that Pete and Artie would get the other piece of the astrolabe and erase this twenty-four hours from history, and then that never would’ve happened, Helena never would’ve died, and everything would end some other way than in a—

“Artie, thank _god_ ,” said Myka, rubbing at a place she’d been squeezed a _little_ bit too tightly by the rigging rope from the Mary Celeste.

“Yes, that was getting rather close,” replied Helena with what Myka could only describe as a wicked smirk.

“Okay, listen, we have to find Sykes.” Myka looked at Artie, who appeared—confused.

“I…I’m good,” he said. “Right…you were tied up! And now you’re free.”

“Artie, what is _wrong_?”

“Nothing,” he replied, all too quickly. And then, after staring for a moment, he shouted something about a bomb in Sykes’ wheelchair.

“Yes, that makes perfect sense!” cried Helena, and then, with a frown creasing her face, she added, “How did you know about that?”

But Artie insisted they needed to get to some aisle or other of the Warehouse, and the three of them were off like a shot, first to find Sykes’ wheelchair, and then to find Gandhi’s dhoti to neutralize the pure hatred that powered the masonry from the British House of Commons. Artie threw the dhoti over the bomb and—thank god—it stopped beeping.

Until it started again.

Myka closed her eyes, and she thought. “You said that the bomb was fueled by hatred, right?” Artie confirmed, and blathered on, and Myka shook her head. “It’s not the bomb. It’s not the bomb!”

“Of course! The hatred,” said Helena.

“Right. So if hatred is what ignites the bomb, then we don’t need to diffuse the bomb.”

“We need to diffuse Walter Sykes,” finished Helena, and Myka grinned, because they really _were_ soulmates, weren’t they?

Artie insisted that Pete was about to do away with Sykes, and they were off running again, with Helena wondering aloud how Artie knew what was going to happen.

“Bring him back!” cried Artie, gesturing at Pete, and sure enough, Pete threw Sykes back through the portal. Myka draped the dhoti over him, and, in true Warehouse fashion, some weird shit happened, the bomb stopped, and Sykes was dead.

For a long moment, they all stood in silence. It was almost hard to believe that it was all over. A quick Farnsworth call to Claudia, and then another to Jane, ensured everyone that everything was going to be okay; the Remati shackle had deactivated and the barrier was down, which meant they could remove Sykes and leave the Warehouse safely.

But not before the artifacts they’d used were properly neutralized.

“You take the bomb, I’ll take the dhoti,” said Myka to Helena, folding up the dhoti.

“Why do you get the dhoti?” Helena complained, although she was still holding the bomb from before.

“You’re British,” Myka tossed over her shoulder, heading for the nearest stock of neutralizing bags. “You get the British artifact.”

“Which just so happens to be a horrifically powerful incendiary device,” Helena murmured, following a pace behind Myka. “I wasn’t even _there_ during the blitzkrieg, you know. I was here, bronzed. That hardly seems fair.”

Myka laughed and glanced over her shoulder at Helena as she grabbed a neutralizer bag and put the dhoti inside, turning her head away to avoid the sparks. She wanted to say something light and witty to make Helena smile, or laugh, but she remembered the quick hug she’d pulled Helena into back in the Regents’ Sanctum, and the promise she’d made that they would talk, and suddenly light and witty didn’t feel right. “None of this has really been fair,” she said instead, holding out a second neutralizer bag for Helena to put the whole of the bomb inside. Not that it was active, but because it hardly made sense to tempt fate by keeping it out the way it was.

“No,” Helena agreed, dropping the bomb inside. It didn’t even spark. “I don’t suppose it has been.”

With the neutralizing bags sealed, Myka took a moment just to look at Helena. Emily Lake had taken good care of her body, that was for sure, but Emily hadn’t been Helena, hadn’t worn that same skin with such ease and such confidence as Helena did.

Myka wanted nothing more than to kiss her.

But they were both still holding artifacts, and the Warehouse floor was no place to fool around, not if you didn’t want to risk getting zapped by excess artifact power, or having something fall on your head and end up doing god only knew what. So Myka sighed, and jerked her head in the direction of Artie’s office. “C’mon. Let’s put these with all the other artifacts waiting to be shelved, and then we can head back to the B&B and…maybe have that talk?”

Helena smiled at her. “I’d like that.”

They made their way through the maze of shelves, with Myka directing them to some shortcuts, not really speaking although there was obviously a lot to be said. And once they arrived in the office, Artie and the others were there, so anything they might’ve said to one another they kept to themselves. That was just as well, though, since Helena had, until recently, been in Regent jail and Myka wasn’t sure if she could leave.

“Artie, can Helena come back with us to the B&B, or…?”

“Yes, take her!” snapped Artie from behind his computer, clacking away at the keyboard. “So long as we know where she is Kosan won’t care.” He glanced up from whatever he was doing to check the clock, and flapped a hand at them. “Go! Begone! He’ll be here any minute and I have _things to do_.”

That was easier said than done, though, since she, Pete, and Helena had come to the Warehouse through the portal. “We didn’t exactly drive over here, Artie. What car did you bring? Will it fit all of us?”

“I borrowed your gas-guzzling monstrosity,” he grumbled. “The keys will be—somewhere around here. Now shoo!”

Rather than bother looking for the keys Artie had likely lost in his piles, ever-prepared Myka grabbed a spare set she kept in a drawer in the office. Pete, in typical Pete fashion, called shotgun as soon as they were out the door, which meant that Helena had to ride in the back. Myka shot her an apologetic glance, but stopped to open the back door for Helena, and to touch her shoulder as she climbed up into the truck.

“Soon,” she promised quietly.

Not soon enough, though, because Pete prattled on the whole drive about how his shoulder hurt like crazy. “Probably the wicked mojo in that crop,” he said, and she and Helena shared a long-suffering glance in the rearview mirror.

Myka breathed a sigh of relief as she pulled up to the B&B, because maybe she and Helena could finally, _finally_ have some privacy. But as soon as they were through the door, Claudia was on them, hugging them, rambling about how glad she was that they were okay, and how cool it was that Helena was there with them.

“Dude, H.G., it is _so_ much better to have you here, like, _here_ here and not in like…aw, you know what I mean,” said Claudia, before hugging Helena just as fiercely as she’d hugged Myka and Pete.

“I’m rather glad to be _here_ here myself,” replied Helena with a fond smile. A kind of…big sister smile, Myka thought, finding herself smiling as well.

“Should we…?” she met Helena’s gaze, gesturing up the stairs.

“Of course. Right behind you, darling,” said Helena, giving her one of those _looks_ , the ones that felt like they could burn they were so hot, so thick with meaning. Myka felt her cheeks flushing, and ducked her head as she turned to climb the stairs.

“Ohmygod,” gasped Claudia. She lowered her voice, but not low enough that Myka couldn’t hear as she added, “Are you and Myka—is that like, a thing that is finally gonna happen?”

“I heard that, Claude,” said Myka, not pausing on her way up the steps.

Claudia…squealed. There was no other word for that noise, really. “Ohmygod it totally _is_ a thing!”

“Claudia,” said Helena, in a tone that sounded like it was trying to be stern, but which came out mostly sounding amused.

Myka just shook her head and finished her trek, pausing at her bedroom door, leaning her forehead against the wood. Was this, as Claudia said, finally going to happen? Were she and Helena really going to talk about their relationship, their future, determine where to go from here?

“Myka?” called Helena softly.

She lifted her head and turned around, leaning her body against the door, only to find Helena mere inches away from her, her dark eyes glinting with a light Myka didn’t know how to read. “Hi,” breathed Myka.

Helena smirked at her, reached up and pushed a stray lock of hair behind Myka’s ear. “I think we ought to go in, darling, don’t you?” she asked. Myka couldn’t tell if she was teasing, or if she was serious, but her throat was suddenly too tight for words, so she simply nodded and fumbled behind her for the handle, almost stumbling as it turned beneath her hand and opened behind her.

This was not the first time Helena had been in her bedroom. Before Egypt, it had become commonplace for Helena to be in Myka’s room, or Myka in Helena’s—for entirely innocent reasons. To talk, mostly. But suddenly, having Helena in this space, in her room, made the air feel charged, and as Helena closed the door behind them, Myka wanted, for an instant, to bolt, to avoid the talk they were about to have, that they _needed_ to have, because if they never discussed their situation, neither of them could truly be blamed for it.

But the door clicked shut, and feeling unsure of herself, Myka sank down onto her bed, biting her lip. Unsure of what to say, how to start this conversation, she looked down at her hands instead, lacing her fingers together in her lap.

“Myka,” began Helena, “I’m sorry—”

“Oh god,” blurted Myka, her head jerking up. “Please, just—whatever you’re going to say, don’t, okay? I’m tired of you always…apologizing to me all the time.” She pulled her hands apart and held up her wrist, pushing back the sleeve of her jacket and shirt to make her soulmark plain, actually _showing_ it to Helena, on purpose, for the first time. “I’ve spent my whole life marked with your apologies…I don’t need any more.”

Helena, who hadn’t moved from her spot just inside the door, ran a hand through her hair and, looking suddenly very small, folded her arms over her chest and stared out the window rather than at Myka. One hand lifted towards her throat, probably looking for her locket out of habit, but the locket was still in Myka’s pocket, not around her neck. “And that is the heart of it, is it not?” she said. “After everything I’ve done, everything I’ve put you through…it feels as though apologies are all I have left to offer you.”

“Now, see, I _know_ that’s not true,” retorted Myka, letting go of her sleeves, pressing her hands into the mattress on either side of her as she shook her head. “For someone so smart, sometimes you can be so _stupid_.”

Helena sighed, unfolding her arms and gesturing aimlessly with one hand. “I am damaged, Myka, perhaps beyond repair, and I do not think that you should have to suffer through—”

Though Myka had felt very hesitant about this whole discussion a moment before, now she felt fire coursing through her. “That’s _not_ your decision to make!” she snapped, pushing herself up off the bed. “It pisses me off when you make all the choices and expect everyone to go along with them. I’m a part of this relationship too!”

“Are you, in fact?” Helena shot back, arms folded again. “What _relationship_ can we possibly have? As you’ll recall, I tried to destroy the world! There’s no way the Regents will simply… _allow_ me to stay now that I’ve ended up back in my body.”

Maybe, possibly, Myka shouted. “Don’t bring them into this. The Regents have _nothing_ to do with this!”

“They have _everything_ to do with this!” cried Helena, throwing her hands up. “I shouldn’t even _be_ here. It is entirely likely that Mr. Kosan is on his way to _collect_ me at this very moment.”

Myka reached up and ran her fingers through her hair, raking her scalp with her nails. With just a few words, Helena had brought up all of the anger Myka had thought she’d quelled with time and distance from everything that happened in Egypt and Yellowstone. And as much as she didn’t want to admit it, Helena was right; it was probable that the Regents wouldn’t let Helena stay, that she wouldn’t be reinstated a second time, not after everything she’d done.

But that didn’t change the way that Myka felt about her, or the fact that Helena’s words were on her wrist, and that her words were on Helena’s arm.

Her eyes filled with frustrated tears as she closed the distance between them and rested her hands on Helena’s shoulders, ran them down her arms, cradling her biceps, her left thumb caressing the spot where she knew her words were inked on Helena’s skin.

She didn’t know what to say, and for a moment, her mouth worked silently, but then words came pouring out, faster than she could process them. “I—god, Helena, I just—I love you so much, I don’t want them to take you away from me. Not again. I know you’re right, and they probably will, but…”

Helena shushed her, lifting her own hands to cup Myka’s face, her fingers cool against Myka’s flushed cheeks. “Then it seems to me we ought to make the most of the time we have,” she said, stepping even closer, her breath feathering across Myka’s skin.

Myka stared into Helena’s eyes, so dark she thought for a fleeting moment that they were like black holes, that if she got too close, she’d be sucked inside and disappear forever. One of Helena’s long-fingered hands slid behind her head, exerting the gentlest of pressures against the back of her neck to draw her down, until they were sharing the same air. She paused there, pressing her forehead to Myka’s, her eyes fluttering closed, and for a moment that could’ve lasted hours, they just stayed there, drinking each other in.

Until finally Myka couldn’t stand it any longer, her fingers squeezing Helena’s arms just a bit as she closed that last bit of space between them, acting suddenly enough that Helena gasped against her lips. Helena’s back arched, pressing her chest into Myka’s, and her hand tightened in Myka’s hair, the sudden sting of her nails biting into Myka’s scalp drawing an answering gasp from Myka’s own mouth.

The kiss quickly became heated, their mouths parting, Myka’s hands sliding across Helena’s body, not sure where to settle, flitting from arms to shoulders to neck to back to hips and through the cycle again, while Helena’s fingertips pressed hard enough, desperately enough into the back of Myka’s neck that she was certain she would have bruises there later. Helena ended up pressed against the door, and Myka’s jacket ended up on the floor, and other garments probably would’ve followed, but then they were both startled by a loud knock on the door, just on the other side of Helena’s head, from the gunshot-loud sound of it.

“Ignore it,” murmured Helena, pulling Myka’s mouth back to her own, and Myka would have, but the knock came again about two seconds later.

Her body still flush against Helena’s, Myka sighed, her forehead coming to rest against Helena’s again. “What?” she asked, loudly enough to be heard through the door. Her voice came out lower, rougher than she’d expected it to, and she flushed, hoping whoever it was knocking wouldn’t immediately know why.

“Are you guys making out in there?”

Though she was already blushing, Myka felt even more blood rush to her face. “Oh my god, _Pete_ ,” she called. “That is none of your business!”

Of course, she could hear Pete all but cackling through the door. “You totally are! I _knew_ it!”

Myka had a vivid mental image of Pete pumping his fist in the air and pulled away from Helena, just enough to glare at the door. “I’m gonna kill him.”

“Later, darling,” said Helena with heavy-lidded eyes, drawing Myka back in for another kiss.

“No, but really,” said Pete out in the hall. “Kosan is downstairs. He’s uh, he’s here for H.G.”

Well, that was about the biggest buzzkill Myka could imagine. Her mouth slipped away from Helena’s, and she eased back just far enough to see the whole of Helena’s face clearly. “I guess…this is it then,” she whispered.

“Yes,” replied Helena, her eyes tracking down, following the path of her hands as they came to rest against Myka’s chest. “I suspect so.” She looked small again, afraid, and Myka leaned forward to press a kiss to her forehead. Helena leaned into her then, her arms slipping around Myka’s waist, and they embraced quietly.

Myka rested her chin atop Helena’s hair, curling around her, sheltering her against the door, her eyes welling with tears again. “No matter what happens,” she said fiercely, “I love you, Helena.”

Helena nodded against her, and then shifted, grasping Myka’s right hand in both of her own, holding it strongly, surely between hers before she lifted it closer, closed her eyes, and pressed her lips to Myka’s soulmark with a kind of reverence Myka had never seen her display before. When she let go and her eyes opened once more, Myka could see the sadness in them, the seemingly endless depths of sorrow this broken woman before her contained, and her heart ached for her.

“Guys, he’s waiting,” called Pete, and Helena sighed.

“I’m coming, Peter,” she replied, her normally silken voice sounding surprisingly harsh in the stillness of the room. Myka stepped back and watched her visibly collect herself, straightening her jacket, smoothing her hair, standing up straight. “I have one last favor to ask of you, Myka, though I’ve no right to do so.”

“Anything,” breathed Myka.

“Please…stay here, and don’t follow? I’d like to remember you—like this.” She reached up and tugged at a lock of Myka’s hair with a sad smile. “Flushed, breathless, thoroughly kissed…absolutely beautiful.”

Myka, who was, as Helena had observed, still flushed with embarrassment, flushed a deeper shade of red, and ducked her head. “Okay,” she whispered. “Okay.”

“Goodbye, darling,” said Helena, leaning in for one more kiss, quick and chaste, little more than a brush of their lips.

She turned to go with a waft perfume, and as her hand rested on the doorknob, Myka remembered something else. “Helena, wait!” she called, reaching into the pocket of her jeans, fishing out Helena’s locket and holding it out to her. “You’ll want this.”

Helena looked from the locket to Myka, and this time it was her eyes that welled with tears. She plucked the necklace from Myka’s hand and hugged her again, brief but fierce. “Thank you,” she whispered.

And then she was gone, and Myka allowed herself to sink down onto her bed—and cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always love it when other characters ship Bering & Wells, especially Claudia, because that just seems like such a Claudia thing to do.


	8. Chapter 8

Helena descended the stairs of the bed and breakfast with a heavy heart, knowing beyond any shadow of a doubt that behind her, Myka was mourning her loss. At least, Helena had to reason, this time she _had_ a body, and a heart within. And though she believed herself free of the Janus Coin, thinking it unlikely that the Regents would apply the same sentence twice, there was no shortage of other artifacts in the Warehouse which could be used to punish her for her actions.

It was entirely possible that she would never be allowed to return to this place, to the Warehouse—or to Myka.

The thought sent a stab of pain and guilt through her that was so sudden and so strong she had to pause on the stairs to breathe. No matter what Myka said, she deserved every last apology Helena could make to her, because she never should’ve been put through all of this suffering.

When she caught her breath again, she continued down the stairs, only to find Pete waiting for her at the bottom.

“He doesn’t seem upset, if you’re worried,” he said softly, chafing his hands together.

Helena took a breath and let it out slowly, resting her hand on the stairway railing. “Yes, thank you.”

“Hey, I…wanted to say thanks,” added Pete, glancing up to where she stood a step above him. “For everything back there. Y’know, with the chess lock, and all the,” he trailed off, making a strange noise and a vague gesture that she thought were supposed to mean “crazy” when combined.

Since Pete had, to her knowledge, never been fond of her, Helena felt surprise creep across her face at his rather obviously heartfelt thanks. “You’re welcome.”

They stared at one another for a second, Helena feeling awkward as she watched him visibly struggle with whether or not to say something else. Before he could decide, she cut in. “As I am uncertain what…state I may soon be in,” she said, glancing back up the stairs, “please…look after Myka?”

His expression sobered, and he nodded. “I will.”

“Thank you,” she sighed, stepping down off the stairs. Pete moved aside, and she went to find Kosan, who was alone in the living room, without even Artie or Mrs. Frederic.

“Miss Wells,” he greeted with a smile.

“Are we to leave this moment, or ought I to pack some things?” she asked, hoping his answer would give her some indication of what degree of punishment she should expect.

“The Regents are awaiting our arrival, so I am afraid we must make haste. If you please,” he said, gesturing for her to precede him, so she merely sighed and did as directed, leaving the bed and breakfast, and Myka, behind her.

A man in a dark suit was holding open the rear door of a black town car, into which Kosan climbed, with Helena close behind him. Only once they were on their way did she dare speak.

“What is it to be this time?” she asked, folding her hands together in her lap, trying and failing not to recall the utterly broken expression on Myka’s face as she had left. “Actual imprisonment? The bronze once again? Or something else? Coleridge’s cravat, perhaps, that I might feel the weight of the albatross any time I feel someone’s gaze upon me?”

“Your fate has not been pre-determined,” said Kosan placidly. “However, Agent Nielsen has argued in favor of your being allowed your freedom, which we are taking under advisement.”

Artie? Arguing _for_ her? Helena found her mouth gaping quite embarrassingly. “Pardon me, but I find that somewhat hard to believe.”

“He was quite passionate. He convinced Mrs. Frederic and myself to speak on your behalf as well.” This was equally shocking, and Helena found herself gaping again, at which Kosan smiled, a small, tight smile that was hard to read. “Nonetheless, the decision is not solely mine to make. Thus, the meeting with the Regents.”

Helena forced herself to snap her jaws shut. What could Artie possibly have said to convince _both_ Mrs. Frederic and Mr. Kosan that she ought to be let go? And even if they believed him, even if they did argue on her behalf, as Kosan had said they would, that didn’t mean that the rest of the Regents would consent. What was more, even if she was allowed to go free, she wouldn’t necessarily be spared some other kind of punishment.

Regardless, it seemed to Helena there was very little she herself could do about it. The Regents had spoken to her many times while she was imprisoned on the Janus Coin, had allowed her on more than one occasion to advocate for herself, for her own release; if she had not been able to convince them then, she would doubtless be unable to convince them now.

But if one of her most vocal opponents was willing to speak on her behalf…perhaps there was a chance she would be given some real form of a life this time.

They eventually arrived at a nondescript office building, and made their way up to what appeared to be an utterly ordinary office, complete with a reception desk and cubicles. The receptionist, a young black woman with dreadlocks, locked the door through which they had entered, and then led them through the cubicles to a meeting space already occupied by quite a motley bunch. Helena recognized most of them as Regents she had seen before, but some were new faces, doubtless replacements found after others had been killed. Still, a quick count showed that, with the exception of Jane Lattimer, who was currently in an airport awaiting a flight back to America, they were all physically present; even Jane was being conferenced in via Mrs. Frederic’s Farnsworth.

“We are here, as you know, to review Miss Wells’ case,” said Kosan. “In light of recent events, the matter of her freedom is once again up for debate.”

Mrs. Frederic then outlined said “recent events,” starting with Helena’s willingness to have the Janus Coin, and her consciousness, destroyed, moving through her actions in the Regents’ Sanctum, and ending with her assistance in neutralizing the threats posed by Walter Sykes and the bomb in his wheelchair. She finished by repeating what Kosan had told Helena, that Artie had changed his mind with regards to her, and now believed her deserving of her freedom. “Arthur is a good agent,” she said, “and generally a good judge of character. If he truly believes that Miss Wells should be allowed her freedom, which he most certainly seems to do, then I am inclined to agree with him.”

Some debate followed, as she had expected. Unsurprisingly, some of the Regents seemed firm in their distrust of her, while others seemed ambivalent, and still others genuinely seemed to want to see her released from Regent custody. The discussion went on for quite some time; how long, Helena couldn’t tell, as she had no watch and no phone, and there were no visible clocks in the room, but when the time finally came for the vote, Helena waited with her back ramrod straight, radiating tension. The tally, however, came out in her favor, and she sagged in relief at the thought that she would not be put back into some kind of stasis.

Still, that was only half the battle, and she was forced to sit through another long period of deliberations as other forms of punishment and rehabilitation were entertained and discarded: imprisonment, forced talk therapy, the use of various artifacts with a wide range of effects. Eventually, it was concluded that she would be released into the world at large, but that she would be barred from the Warehouse unless specifically called on for aid.

The meeting was adjourned, and Helena was handed what turned out to be Emily Lake’s wallet. “There is a safe house awaiting you in Rapid City,” said Mrs. Frederic. “You will find information there about your identity, along with a telephone programmed with a number which will reach me at any time.” She gave Helena a long, measured look over the top of her glasses, extended a set of keys to her, and finished, “I am well aware of your…affinity for Agent Bering, Miss Wells, but I would like to stress that you are to have no contact with the Warehouse or its agents unless we call upon _you_ first.”

Helena accepted the keys, weighing them in her hand even as a question weighed on her mind. When she spoke, her voice came out soft, tentative, sounding rather unlike her. “Might it be possible, at least, to be kept informed about her…whereabouts, how she’s doing?”

“I believe that can be arranged,” said Mrs. Frederic, with a suspiciously soft look in her eye that made Helena wonder if she knew more than she let on. Well, the answer to that was obvious, since Mrs. Frederic always seemed to know more than she let on, but Helena couldn’t help but wonder, more specifically, if she knew what she and Myka were to one another. Still, whether Mrs. Frederic knew or not, the Regents had made their decision, and that decision was going to keep Helena and Myka apart.

“Thank you,” said Helena, looking Mrs. Frederic in the eye, trying to imbue the words with all of the meanings she could muster: thank you for keeping me updated on Myka, thank you for knowing she means so much to me, thank you for making sure I wasn’t imprisoned again, thank you for helping me.

Mrs. Frederic smiled, and glanced towards the door. “Go,” she encouraged, and Helena nodded, making her way through the building and out onto the dark street. She didn’t know which car her keys would unlock, but a quick press of the unlock button set the lights of a blue sedan flashing, so Helena climbed in. A map was waiting on the passenger seat with a set of directions, and Helena followed them, feeling somewhat comforted by the quiet peace of being one of only a few cars on the highway.

When she reached Rapid City, she paid closer attention to the directions, until at last she pulled up to a neighborhood on the outskirts of town where each home seemed almost identical to the next. She double-checked the address to be sure she was at the right house, parked her car in the driveway, and let herself in.

The very nondescript nature of the place, Helena thought, made it the perfect safe house. It was almost painfully generic, decorated in a bland palette of beige and cream, with no wall décor beyond a mirror just inside the front door, the furniture and appliances all slightly outdated. Overall, it was plain, but serviceable.

Her stomach growled, embarrassingly loud in the silence of the space, so she went to the refrigerator to look for some food. To her disappointment, it contained only a case of unopened water bottles, and the cabinets, she found, were equally bare of foodstuffs. Since the clock on the stove indicated it was too late to seek out a shop or a restaurant, Helena concluded her hunger would have to remain with her until the morning.

She retired to what she supposed was the master bedroom, where she found, as Mrs. Frederic had indicated she would, a file with information about Emily Lake, along with the promised telephone, and a small duffel bag containing some of her clothes. She considered reviewing the file immediately, but her body was aching with exhaustion, as it hadn’t truly slept since it was inhabited by the actual Emily Lake, well over twenty-four hours ago. True, she had dozed on the seventeen-hour flight to Hong Kong, but even that felt long ago, so Helena put the file aside, stripped down, and slid between the sheets, falling asleep to thoughts of Myka’s lips on hers.

After her first deep, sound sleep in a time longer than Helena cared to remember, she was up and about, washing the lingering traces of the Regents’ Sanctum from her skin, dressing in clothes that were blissfully, comfortably _hers_ for the first time since before the Janus Coin, and going about her business. She sought out a meal and a cup of tea, and then set about stocking the larders of the house, and only when that was done did she bother to immerse herself in the details of Emily Lake’s life and history.

The first thing she found, however, was a post-it note: “It is recommended you stick to this biography, but many of its details are mere suggestions. Any interests you would like to pursue can be accommodated, within reason. –Mrs. F”

Helena’s eyebrows rose at the idea that, for the first time since she had awoken in this century, she was truly free to pick her own path. Yes, Emily Lake had certain facts of her life which she ought not to deviate from—where she was born, for example, or the names of her family members. But further notations in the file made it clear that Helena was free to change other aspects of Emily’s life—her interests, her hobbies, the degree she had pursued, the field of work she had chosen. Apparently, these were the sorts of “accommodations” that could be made: credentials fabricated, references supplied.

With this sort of possibility laid at her feet, Helena felt the world opening up before her. She could do anything, be anything—“within reason.”

But before making any major choices about Emily Lake’s life, Helena decided to allow herself some time to practice her cover and become acclimated to the area, to adjust to responding to “Emily” and to find the sorts of places she considered it appropriate for her to frequent—restaurants, shops, even a yoga studio, as the practice of yoga, something Helena herself had never tried, struck her as something Emily would enjoy.

To aid herself in the process of fitting in, Helena picked up again with the films and television shows Pete and Claudia had recommended to her—the ones she could remember, anyway. When she wasn’t out and about in Rapid City, she was parked in front of the safe house’s modest television, attempting to learn modern slang and trying to rid herself of anachronistic words and phrasing left over from the world she had grown up in. She got sucked into Claudia’s recommendations of Doctor Who and Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Game of Thrones, and always enjoyed the seemingly endless James Bond films Pete had so loved to watch with her.

So-called “reality television,” though, was something she stumbled upon herself, and when Helena wasn’t watching Pete or Claudia’s recommendations, or the seemingly constant flow of Law & Order shows that could always be found airing on some channel or other, Helena found herself fascinated by the sheer number of options: shows about catty housewives and celebrities learning ballroom dance, others about pawn shops, real estate, cooking, and weddings. Good lord, Helena had never thought anyone could need _so many_ shows about weddings! (Still, she would admit, if questioned, that those were some of her favorite reality shows.)

To put herself to the test, Helena would attempt to integrate her new pop culture knowledge into her life in Rapid City, would make idle conversation with waitresses in diners or fellow patrons of a coffee shop about the things she had learned, and was careful to employ the phrases she had learned, and to eliminate those which she had favored. (“Righty-ho then,” for example, had to go.) It was a strange experience, and it felt fraudulent, rather than natural, but Helena supposed she had nothing but time to get used to it.

All of that was put on hold, though, when her Warehouse-issued cell phone rang one day, for the very first time. Even more surprising, it was Arthur on the other end of the line.

“Listen, there’s something that I need…done…and for various reasons I can’t tell Pete or Myka…or anybody. Not yet. Something I need done completely off the books.”

She was stunned that he had thought to turn to her, but perhaps more stunned that he had her contact information, and that he was aware that she was…available to aid agents of the Warehouse if called upon. She had doubted, somehow, that the Regents would make that information known, but more than that, she had doubted, even given his apparent change in attitude towards her, that he would willingly ask for her assistance.

Some strange noise issued from the other end of the line. “Who are you talking to?”

“Hm?” he asked. “Oh, no one.”

Suspicious, but pleased to have been asked for help, and even more pleased with the idea that this could possibly bring her closer to Myka, of whom she had had no word since being exiled from the Warehouse, Helena told him she would help.

“All right, good, I’ll send you the information,” said Artie.

“Out of curiosity,” she asked, arching a brow, “what is this about? You sound, if you’ll pardon me for saying so, rather on edge. Even for you.”

“Yeah, well…I want you to find…a certain artifact. Before it finds me.”

“And I suppose you want me to tell no one of this? Not even Mrs. Frederic?”

“Off the books,” he reiterated, and she assented.

The next day, a courier showed up to her house carrying an envelope. She tipped him, and wasted no time in opening the package, which proved to be a file on Francesco Borgia’s dagger. There wasn’t much in the file beyond a bare outline of Borgia’s life—the fourth Duke of Gandía, a widower, became a Jesuit priest, was widely regarded as a saint even during his lifetime. It wasn’t much, but it was a place to start.

Though it left her unsettled, going into an artifact hunt not knowing what the artifact actually _did_ , Artie had sounded truly afraid, and had urged her to find the dagger with all haste. Since he had insisted she not share what she was doing with anyone, at least not yet, she was unable to ask for Mrs. Frederic’s assistance. Still, although her own assets had been frozen after the incident with the Minoan Trident, Emily Lake’s account had a generous balance no doubt furnished by the Warehouse, or at least by the Regents, which Helena had no qualms about using. Shortly she had booked a flight to Spain in Emily’s name, and was off on the trail of Borgia’s dagger.

Posing as a historian writing a biography of Borgia, Helena began in his home of Gandía, speaking to various local officials and historians. Her Spanish was regrettably rusty, and embarrassingly accented, but serviceable enough for her to learn that Borgia’s relics now rested in a Jesuit church in Madrid. So she booked a train ticket to Madrid, sought out the church, and spoke with a very earnest Jesuit priest about Saint Francis Borgia, who indicated to her that beyond the relics contained within the church, all of Borgia’s belongings had been split up, and that anything that had appeared valuable would likely have been sold, with the profits coming back to the Jesuit order.

Fortunately, they would have kept a register of any such sales, and her new priest friend was only too pleased to show it to her, which gave her a trail to follow back to the dagger.

But in showing her the register, her priest friend also showed to her a print of a preparatory oil sketch Goya had done when preparing to paint a large portrait of Borgia for the chapel honoring him in the cathedral in Valencia, an examination of which made her question, once again, the dagger’s purpose.

To the casual observer, the painting in question appeared to depict Borgia performing an exorcism, the crucifix held aloft in his right hand spattering the man possessed with what seemed to be blood, while demons waited in the darkness nearby. But the title of the painting, _Saint Francis of Borgia attending a dying impenitent_ , indicated he was supposed to be saving the dying man’s soul, not performing an exorcism. Still, Helena knew she was hunting a dagger, and the red droplets splattered across the canvas indicated to her that perhaps Goya had replaced the artifact in his painting with a crucifix.

Intrigued now, but also worried, as she was beginning to believe the dagger had been used in exorcisms, and was likely very powerful and very dangerous, Helena sought out all the information she could find on the painting. Luckily, the internet taught her all she needed to know, and even provided her with an early pencil sketch Goya had made—which, she could tell immediately, had clearly been altered at some point, changing the object in Borgia’s hand from something he clutched overhand—like a dagger—into a crucifix.

Staring at the digitized Goya sketch, Helena remembered, suddenly, how Artie had seemingly just _known things_ when it came to toppling Sykes. The wheelchair, the bomb, the dhoti. Her mind began chasing itself in rapid circles, making connections, and coming to the inevitable conclusion that somehow, Artie must have travelled into the future—and then back, to prevent Sykes from succeeding in his goal.

Who better than she, after all, to recognize the signs of time travel?

Her heart was racing as she gripped her locket, finally ending her train of thought with the notion that Artie must have need of the dagger to counteract some side effect of whatever artifact he had used to travel through time. And if the dagger was used in exorcisms, that side effect could not be anything good.

Though to this point she had only ever communicated her needs to Mrs. Frederic via coded and encrypted text messages, this time, Helena didn’t hesitate to dial her phone’s one programmed number.

Her laptop was still open to the digitized Goya sketch as the phone rang, and rang, and rang, more times than Helena thought possible. But eventually, someone answered.

“Miss Wells,” said Mrs. Frederic. “I take it you are in need of some assistance?”

“I believe Artie has travelled through time,” she said, and then proceeded to explain, first, everything that had led to that conclusion, and second, everything about the dagger.

“Whatever Arthur needs the dagger for, it cannot end well,” said Mrs. Frederic, sounding every bit as grim as Helena herself suddenly felt. “You must stall him,” she added. “Provide him with only some information about the dagger, and hold him off as long as possible. I will see to it that you are granted access to the Regents’ library. See if you can determine which artifact he may have used to begin with.”

“Yes,” said Helena, feeling her pulse slow with the thought that she had a purpose, a mission.

“And be careful,” added Mrs. Frederic.

“Of course,” she replied.

And she was careful. She was purposefully demure in her travel back to America so as not to draw attention, and when she eventually arrived at the Regents’ library, she was methodical about her research, in some ways picking up where she had left off more than a hundred years ago, after Christina died. Only this time, her research on time travel had nothing to do with vengeance, and everything to do with averting some unknown disaster.

Eventually, when she was fairly certain which artifact Artie had used, she contacted him, taking care to call the number from which he had called her only at night, when she could be relatively certain Artie would be the one to answer.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Artie,” she replied.

“Have you found it?”

Instead of answering him, she insisted that they needed to speak in person, and he assured her that he would find a time the next day to speak with her—at the bed and breakfast, since she was explicitly forbidden from stepping foot in the Warehouse, but not the B&B.

So the next afternoon, she arrived at the bed and breakfast, her heart clenching at the sight, wondering if Myka was inside. There were no cars out front, though, which meant it was likely empty, so Helena merely sighed and parked down the street, walking back to Leena’s, to the back door, as she and Artie had agreed.

She waited for some time, hearing a car pull up in the drive, and again, her heart raced in her chest at the thought that, perhaps, it was Myka—but a careful glance around the corner showed it was Claudia’s car, not Myka’s, and a bit more spying proved the car most certainly did not contain Myka, or even Pete. So Helena sighed again and went back to waiting, until she heard the front door open and close, and a few moments beyond, after which she knocked, somewhat impatiently, on the glass of the back door.

Artie let her in, and Helena did as Mrs. Frederic had instructed, giving him only vague details about the dagger. But then, knowing what she now did, she was unable to contain herself, and soon found herself confronting Artie, suggesting, as she had to Mrs. Frederic, that he had travelled through time. He attempted to deny it, but couldn’t sustain the façade, and as soon as she accused him of having used Magellan’s Astrolabe, his eyes went wide with fear.

Then he was chattering wildly at her, about the Brotherhood of the Black Diamond and Brother Adrian, about the astrolabe and a warning of grave danger and an evil of his own making. And all Helena could think to do was tell him that he would have to explain it all to Mrs. Frederic—directly, and with no omissions.

Naturally, he didn’t seem pleased with the idea, but Helena didn’t give him a choice. “I’ll see you again soon, Artie,” she said, and, knowing there was nothing to keep her there, not at the moment, stalked out of the bed and breakfast and back to her car, where she immediately called Mrs. Frederic again, and informed her of what she’d heard from Artie. After that, it was a matter of following directions: go home, get some rest, and return the following day.

That was easier said than done, however. Though Helena had been sleeping much more soundly since being returned to her body this second time—her time on the Janus Coin had given her new perspective on her time in the bronze, making night just shy enough of terrifying that she could sleep—she slept poorly that night, mostly due to the anticipation, the possibility, of seeing Myka the next day. Not that she truly believed seeing Myka was a certainty, but she ached with hope.

The following morning she found herself unable to remain abed long, and shortly after her regular morning routine of tea, toast, and the day’s crossword, she had set out for the bed and breakfast. But of course, the drive had taken long enough that by the time she arrived, the only car out front was Leena’s, meaning she would not be seeing Myka, at least not at the bed and breakfast, and least of all at that particular moment.

It was just shy of a crushing disappointment.

Helena pushed down her distress and arrived, as she had before, at the back door, only this time, Leena was the one who let her in, wrapping her immediately in an embrace that was made all the more welcome by the fact that she had not shared any such intimate personal contact since she left the Warehouse.

“It’s really good to see you again, H.G.,” she said, with one of those lovely Leena smiles that felt warm as summer sunshine.

“And you as well,” replied Helena, summoning a smile of her own. “I take it we are alone?”

“Yes. Pete and Myka left first thing this morning for West Virginia, and Claudia and Steve left only about—”

“Steve?” asked Helena, eyebrows lifting. The last time she had seen him, he’d been…regrettably deceased. And, if she was not mistaken, working for an enemy of the Warehouse. “But I thought—”

Leena’s face glowed with understanding. “Steve’s not dead,” she said, and she looked as if she were about to explain, but then a cell phone on the dining room table vibrated. She checked the screen, and then glanced back up at Helena. “It’s Mrs. Frederic,” she said. “She wants us at the Warehouse.”

“I was under the impression that I was not to set foot inside the Warehouse.”

“Not without being asked,” replied Leena, leading the way into the front hall. “But Mrs. Frederic is asking, so you’re in the clear.” She fished a set of keys out of a pocket of one of the jackets hanging by the door, and smiled another one of those smiles. “C’mon. I’ll explain about Steve in the car.”

Leena made good on her word during the drive, telling Helena how Steve had been working undercover for the Warehouse, how Claudia had, against orders, brought him back from the dead, and how, hopefully, they would find some way to get him off Johann Maelzel’s metronome at Steve’s mother’s house in New Jersey. Finally, when she’d finished, she added, “I’m sorry, by the way.”

“For what?”

“I didn’t offer you anything back at the house. That’s really unlike me. Especially since I even kept that Earl Grey you like so much, just in case. I’ll make us both some when we’re done with this, how’s that?”

“That sounds lovely,” Helena replied, and it was true. Leena had the most delightful way of setting her at ease; if she couldn’t see Myka during this sojourn into the world of the Warehouse, having tea with Leena would be the next best thing.

They were silent for a moment, and of course Myka loomed large in Helena’s mind. Her pulse began to pound in her throat, and Helena attempted to swallow it down.

“Might I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“How…is Myka?”

Leena glanced at her sidelong, and Helena could see the empathy in her gaze. “She’s all right,” said Leena quietly, pulling the car to a halt in front of the Warehouse. She cut the engine and climbed out, and Helena followed suit, sending Leena an entreating look as they walked towards the umbilicus, wanting more information but not wanting to seem too desperate for it. Fortunately, Leena was very much in tune, and gave Helena another empathetic look. “She misses you. She won’t say so, but I know she does.”

“She is not the only one,” sighed Helena, running a hand through her hair as they emerged into the Warehouse, only to hear Mrs. Frederic already mid-confrontation with Artie.

“I don’t know what H.G. may have told you—”

“About Brother Adrian?” she interrupted. “Or using Magellan’s Astrolabe to turn back time?”

Artie was quite clearly flustered and taken aback, shifting his gaze nervously while Mrs. Frederic took him to task, until he burst out, “I had no choice! The Warehouse was gone. You were gone. You too, H.G. You saved Pete, you saved Myka and me, but you were killed.”

Now this, suddenly, made everything make quite a great deal more sense. “That’s why you plead to the Regents on my behalf.”

Before she could consider the implications of this much further, though, the situation Artie described got worse. The Ytterbium chamber destroyed, Pandora’s Box opened, hope gone. It was no wonder he had used the astrolabe. But the repercussions, apparently, were the creation of some sort of “evil” that Artie would have to live with for the rest of his days.

This, as artifact downsides went, was frustratingly vague.

“Well,” said Mrs. Frederic, drawing herself up to her rather imposing full height. “I suppose this will require further discussion.”

A noise issued from Artie’s computer, distracting him. He turned away, checking some files, and then turned back to them. “We’ll talk,” snapped Artie, pushing up suddenly out of his chair. “But let’s head back to Leena’s first. If I’m going to tell you everything, at the very least, there I can have a decent cup of coffee while I do it.”

Mrs. Frederic stared at him over her glasses in that intimidating, silent way she had, but eventually backed down. “Very well,” she said, and that was all it took for them to be tramping back through the umbilicus, for Mrs. Frederic to stand waiting for Artie to open the passenger door of his car and for Helena and Leena to pile back into Leena’s car.

The drive seemed both shorter and longer this time, and though Helena still had questions she would’ve liked to ask Leena about Myka, there were now more pressing matters on her mind: namely, that in some parallel timeline, she had died saving Pete, Myka, and Artie.

Instinctually, without even knowing any of the details surrounding the situation, Helena knew that she had died saving only Myka; the others would have merely been a nice bonus.

As someone who had been all too close to death’s visage for many, many years, Helena couldn’t help but wonder, morbidly, what her death had been like. Knowing what she did about the astrolabe, and about the circumstances Artie had known to avert, it seemed likely her death had not been a quiet one, that she had likely been killed by the explosion of the bomb Sykes had left in his wheelchair. But had it hurt? Had she had a chance to tell Myka anything before she died?

Obviously, whatever the circumstances, her actions had been enough to convince Artie of her good intentions, otherwise he would never have spoken to the Regents for her.

Leena pulled into the driveway of the bed and breakfast, and Helena supposed that they would pick up where they’d left off, but Artie insisted he had some information he needed to pass on to Pete and Myka for the case they were working in West Virginia; wasting time, it seemed to her, and, apparently, to Mrs. Frederic, who impatiently plucked the Farnsworth from his hands.

“You’re grown agents,” she told them stiffly. “Handle it!” She snapped the Farnsworth closed and turned to Artie. “You’re stalling.”

He denied it, but soon gave up when Helena pressed him. “All I have is a feeling,” he’d said. “A feeling that the evil is…it may be Claudia.” He explained, saying that he was having visions of her stabbing him with a dagger.

“The dagger that you tasked me to find,” specified Helena.

“I wanted you to find it so that she wouldn’t,” he shot back, but Mrs. Frederic cut through his ire by suggesting that, perhaps, the Brother Adrian he had mentioned to Helena was the “evil” the astrolabe had brought into the world which, Helena had to admit, made a great deal of sense.

They spent the rest of the day researching the Brotherhood, and especially the astrolabe, but couldn’t come up with anything more specific than the warning Artie already had. She was nearly cross-eyed from staring at tome after dusty tome in the Warehouse library when Leena appeared, bearing a tray with a teapot and two cups.

“That Earl Grey I promised you earlier,” she said with a smile, carefully moving some volumes aside to make room for the tray.

“Oh, _thank_ you,” sighed Helena, closing the book she had been perusing. It, like all the others, had proved thus far to be of little use.

“You’re welcome,” she murmured, pouring the tea and then settling in at the table Helena had been using for her research.

“This,” said Helena with a sigh that grew from somewhere deep inside her body, “is a perfect cup of tea. Absolutely heavenly.”

Leena smiled at her over the top of her teacup. “I learned from watching you, and then Myka, after you taught her,” she admitted, setting the cup down on its saucer. Helena looked down at her own cup at the mention of Myka’s name; she had stayed at the Warehouse beyond Mrs. Frederic’s leaving, and thus beyond her explicit invitation, mostly in hopes that Pete and Myka’s retrieval would end quickly, and that she would have the chance to see Myka which she had longed for the night before. By all rights, she should have been long gone, but hope had kept her affixed to her chair.

“I don’t mean to pry,” said Leena gently, “but you’re soulmates, aren’t you? You and Myka.”

Helena’s hand came up to brush her arm where her soulmark was hidden beneath her clothes, then continued up to grasp her locket. Seeing no use in denying it, not to Leena, who was always so observant, she sighed. “Yes. But that hasn’t made it any easier for us, I’m afraid.”

“No, I don’t suppose it would,” she replied. “Neither of you has had an easy time of it.”

She couldn’t help but laugh, though it was brief, and somewhat harsh-sounding, even to her own ears. “That’s rather an understatement.”

“Sorry. I just meant to say…I’m rooting for you guys. Every time I see you together, your auras just—flare and blur together in the most beautiful way. It’s not something I’ve gotten to see often here. So I really hope—I hope you can find a way for it to work out. Eventually.”

“Well, my being banned from the Warehouse by the Regents certainly won’t help with that.” She dropped her hand away from her locket and picked up her tea, and was about to take another sip when Mrs. Frederic, as was her wont, appeared rather suddenly in the room with them.

“Miss Wells, I will need you to come with me,” she said, and then they were making their way to the Dark Vault, collecting some neutralizing equipment as they went.

“The less Arthur knows about the whereabouts of the astrolabe,” said Mrs. Frederic, removing the artifact from its hiding place, “the better it is for all of us. Take this, and disappear.”

Though Helena wasn’t about to disobey a direct order from Mrs. Frederic, she couldn’t help but give voice to her desires. “I’d rather stay here and help you with the Brotherhood,” she murmured, wrapping the astrolabe carefully and placing it in her bag, though of course what she truly meant was _I’d rather stay here with Myka_. Not that that was truly an option, as the Regents had made abundantly clear, but she still felt it needed to be said; that her protest, token though it was, needed to be registered.

Once the astrolabe was safely tucked away, they left the Warehouse, climbing into Mrs. Frederic’s town car to be driven back to the safe house where Helena had been staying in Rapid City. On the drive, they worked out the terms of Helena’s exile.

First, Helena was not to visit any Warehouse-owned facilities, even by invitation of Warehouse staff, in order to minimize risk, as it was always possible that any such invitation was a ruse conjured by Brother Adrian to entrap her and acquire the astrolabe. She was not to visit Leena’s, the Warehouse itself, or the Regents’ library. After collecting her things, she was even to abandon the safe house, and secure lodging elsewhere, somewhere she would not be recognized (therefore not in Cheyenne, Wyoming, where Emily Lake had lived and worked).

Second, she was not to contact any Warehouse personnel save Mrs. Frederic herself, and even then, only if the need was dire, and only by the same coded and encrypted text messages they had exchanged previously.

Finally, she was to operate with as much care and secrecy as possible, minimizing her paper trail and her digital footprint. She would pay cash whenever possible, and change locations frequently. If she needed money or some other kind of assistance—credentials, perhaps, if she felt she needed a job to legitimate her cover—she would rent a PO Box in another town for a short period of time, provide Mrs. Frederic with the address via text, and await notification of a delivery.

“With any luck, we will find a way to deal with Brother Adrian sooner rather than later,” said Mrs. Frederic, as the car pulled up outside of the safe house. Already there was another vehicle, a weather-beaten SUV, sitting in the driveway, awaiting Helena’s use. “I will keep you apprised of the situation as needed.”

Helena paused with her hand on the door handle. She had a feeling it would be quite some time before she was blessed with seeing a familiar face, even if it was the somewhat forbidding Mrs. Frederic. “If something happens to me while I am in hiding,” she said, glancing from the front door of the house back to Mrs. Frederic, “will you do me the service of informing Myka?”

Mrs. Frederic gave her one of those mysterious smiles that indicated she knew more than she was willing to share. “Yes, of course. Goodbye, Miss Wells. And good luck.”

With murmured thanks, Helena exited the car, and before she was even inside the house to collect her meager belongings, Mrs. Frederic was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Francisco Goya was a famous Spanish painter who was in service to the crown for some time. He's known today for his unique style, and for not having shied away from the grotesque (some of his most well-known paintings include Saturn eating his children, and a scene of massacre from the Peninsular War). If you have any interest in seeing the Goya painting mentioned in this chapter in person, the large version is, in fact, in the cathedral in Valencia, while a smaller version is in a private collection, and the sketch referenced is in the Museo del Prado in Madrid (although of course I made up the fact that the sketch shows him holding a dagger instead of a crucifix). For digital versions, [click here](http://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/San_Francisco_de_Borja_y_el_moribundo_impenitente) to see the paintings or the [sketch](https://www.museodelprado.es/goya-en-el-prado/obras/ficha/goya/san-francisco-de-borja-y-el-moribundo-impenitente/?tx_gbgonline_pi1%5Bgocollectionids%5D=52&tx_gbgonline_pi1%5Bgosort%5D=d).


	9. Chapter 9

It was all too easy to get lost in her grief after Helena left her in her bedroom. Curled on her bed, Myka cried into her pillow over the uncertainty of their position, over the way they had been separated, over the likelihood that she and Helena would never see each other again. She gripped her wrist until it ached, buried her face in the jacket that still smelled of Helena’s perfume, and let the sadness fill her up from the inside, gathering in her bones and her joints and her muscles and her blood and spilling out through her eyes and her mouth and her nose in hideous sobs. The mix of emotions was gnawing and painful and ugly and _real_ , perhaps purer and more authentic than anything she had ever felt before.

It was also exhausting. So exhausting, in fact, that after what felt like years’ worth of sobs all packed together and wrenched from deep within, she fell into a deep sleep, still wearing the clothes she had put on all those many hours ago, before she and Pete left for the Regents’ Sanctum.

In the morning, everything hurt, from her pounding head to her churning stomach to her wrist, which she discovered was stiff and sore from the way she had gripped it the night before. But where the pain of Helena’s departure had been sharp and cutting before sleep, now it felt dulled and distant, as if she were glimpsing it through a fog; like her wracking sobs had expelled every last vestige of her misery the night before, and now the pain existed outside of her, sitting upon her shoulders, weighing her down, making her feel sluggish.

It was a struggle just to roll out of bed and head to the bathroom, so straightening her hair was out of the question, as was making herself truly “presentable,” so she dressed for comfort instead, in a worn pair of jeans and a t-shirt whose dark color appealed to the feeling that she was mourning. At the last minute, she threw an oversized gray cardigan over top, and then, with bleary eyes and sleep-tousled hair, she headed downstairs.

When she arrived in the kitchen, Leena was already there, clutching a cup of coffee like a lifeline.

“Hi,” said Myka quietly, making a beeline for the coffee pot.

Leena looked over at her, her eyes knowing and sympathetic, though she didn’t comment on Myka’s appearance. “Claudia left last night,” she said instead. “She took the metronome.”

It took a few moments for the words to pierce the fog in Myka’s brain, but once they had, she nearly dropped her coffee. As it was, some sloshed over the rim of her mug and scalded her hand, and she hissed at the fresh wave of pain that swept over her, ending with an unpleasant twist somewhere in the vicinity of her gut.

The coffee didn’t look so appetizing any longer, but Myka needed the caffeine more than she needed to calm the roiling of her stomach.

“So she’s going after Steve,” she sighed, rinsing her hand in the sink and ducking her head, her unruly curls falling around her face, obscuring it. “I guess,” she said, hoping to keep the conversation away from herself, “we should’ve seen that coming.”

She held her breath for a long moment, waiting to see if Leena was going to inquire, was going to say something about Myka’s state, or Helena leaving, or any of it, but when she finally spoke, she blessedly accepted what Myka had offered, the conversation that was quite pointedly about Claudia and not herself.

“Mrs. Frederic didn’t seem too surprised when I told her,” said Leena, moving away from Myka to clean up the spilled coffee on the counter. And just like that, they were back on safe ground, and for a while, just as she always did, Myka was able to do what she was so good at: compartmentalize like hell. Helena receded into the background, present only in her words on Myka’s skin and in the lingering sense-memory of her lips pressed to Myka’s, subsumed, temporarily, by other problems.

It helped of course—was a true blessing, really—that first Leena, and then Pete, said nothing about how wild she looked, how tired and strange she seemed in comparison to the self she had presented only the day before. It made it easier to revert to old habits, to pack Helena and her feelings for her away into a corner of her heart and her mind to be dealt with later.

And regrettably, the truth of the matter was that Myka had _practice_ when it came to accepting that Helena was beyond her reach, that they might never see each other again. She’d come to that conclusion before, back when Helena was on the Janus Coin, had said what she’d thought might be her final goodbye back after they’d snagged Joshua’s Trumpet. That had been different, of course, but Myka called on the experience anyway to help her get through: first through the morning, through talk of Claudia and Steve and the metronome, and then through the day, through the case that she and Pete were set on with the— _ugh_ —tentacle monsters, and then through the evening, with a newly-resurrected Steve back at the B&B, pasting an expression of happiness on her face at the sight of him that she felt only on the surface.

It was only after Myka had gone up to bed that she allowed herself to unwind, to bury her face back in her torn jacket that still smelled, faintly, of Helena’s perfume, and to grieve her loss once more.

And so it went, putting on a brave face for the others during the day, and collapsing at night when she was once again alone, thinking, wondering, if Helena was even still alive. She made it through a lot of days that way, through missions tracking artifacts Sykes had left lying around, along with other regular pings. By the time she and Steve were sent to New Orleans, she’d even—almost—come to grips with the idea that she would never see or hear from Helena again. Enough so that when Steve told her about how the metronome made it so that Claudia felt the pain any time Steve got hurt, she could use Helena’s example to illustrate her point without falling apart, could convince Steve that he needed to try and find a way to work around the downside of the metronome, because she wasn’t about to go through finding his dead body again, not after all the other losses she’d been through.

Much to her surprise, she even came to be grateful that Helena was gone when Alice Liddell escaped from the mirror to terrorize them again, jumping from body to body, taking hold of the bodies of her friends, her _family_ , and making them do terrible things to people they loved. After Alice took over Vanessa, and then Claudia, Myka was glad Helena wasn’t there to be taken over too, to be turned against her by Alice.

But just when Myka thought she was getting used to everything, was coming to terms with what had happened and the way things had played out, Artie dropped a bomb on her that obliterated all her progress.

Apparently, Artie had used an artifact, Magellan’s Astrolabe, that day they’d defeated Sykes, and Brother Adrian and his war on the Warehouse was the downside. He’d used the astrolabe, it seemed, to erase twenty-four hours of an alternate timeline because originally, they hadn’t managed to disarm the bomb, the Warehouse had been destroyed, and both H.G. and Mrs. Frederic had died. But the part that left Myka feeling breathless, like all the air had been sucked out of the room, was the fact that the only reason she, Pete, and Artie had survived in the other timeline was because Helena had _sacrificed herself_ to save them.

“Oh my god,” she gasped, clutching her stomach. “Oh my god.”

In that other timeline, she had watched Helena die. For _her_. To save _her_. Because Myka knew H.G., and she wouldn’t have done something like that just for Pete, or Artie, or the two of them together. No, she would’ve done it only because of Myka, and that knowledge made the pain of their separation suddenly all the more acute.

“I—I have to,” she blurted, standing up from the table so quickly, and so gracelessly, that her chair toppled over behind her. “I can’t,” she added, feeling tears prick at her eyes as she turned and hurried out, all but flying up the stairs into the privacy of her bedroom, slamming the door behind her so hard that the knob rattled.

It felt too dramatic a thing to do, to throw herself on her bed and cry (again), so Myka leaned back against the wood of her door feeling stunned, not knowing what to do, what to say, how to process the knowledge that Artie had just imparted to her. She was sure she had missed some crucial parts that came after the destruction of the Warehouse and Helena’s sacrifice, but beyond that all she thought she really needed to know was that Brother Adrian was trying to get back at Artie for using the astrolabe. That was all that really mattered, that and the overwhelmingly important piece of news that Artie hadn’t thought to tell her until now, the only thing that _actually_ mattered to Myka in the scheme of things.

The tears that had threatened her downstairs had receded in her flight to her room, and now she just felt stunned, like she’d been doused in cold water.

Did Helena know about the other timeline?

God, Myka wished she had some way to find out, some way to communicate with Helena, but Myka had no idea where she had gone, or even if Helena was in a place where she was allowed to communicate with the outside world. For all Myka knew, she could be in Regent jail somewhere, or maybe even back on the Janus Coin.

She thought, fleetingly, that Mrs. Frederic might know where Helena was, might be able to tell Myka something about her, might even know if Helena knew about the other timeline…but Myka wasn’t really sure how to contact Mrs. Frederic, either. Anyway, even if she had known how, it seemed to her that Mrs. Frederic wouldn’t exactly welcome the needy ramblings of a lowly Warehouse agent.

So instead, Myka sat down on her bed and stared out the window, beginning to feel, as the news sank in, _grateful_ , of all things. After all, how many people actually knew with certainty that someone would die to save them—and without having to live through the sadness of losing that other person? She was grateful for the gift of that knowledge, and grateful also that Artie had used the astrolabe. Because, after all, if he hadn’t, she never would’ve known what it felt like to kiss Helena, to hold her.

For that, he _deserved_ her gratitude. Yes, he had saved the Warehouse, and probably the world, too, but above all those things, Myka owed him for saving Helena. And because of that, no matter what Brother Adrian was after, Myka would help fight him, because she owed her loyalty and her faith to Artie for what he had done.

Even after the next day, when Brother Adrian sent an artifact to Tracy and Myka had to swoop in to neutralize it, even after Tracy was whammied and tried to kill Myka because of it, she was still grateful. But all of that gratitude bled away the minute she learned that Artie himself was the evil Brother Adrian had cautioned against, that Artie had killed Leena, and that all of this—the artifacts disappearing from the Warehouse, the thing with Tracy—was happening because of him. He had saved the Warehouse, and he had saved Helena, but using the astrolabe had done something to him, made him into someone who obviously didn’t give two shits about having killed Leena.

Even through the grief for what had happened to Leena, it was still a relief to hear from Mrs. Frederic that Helena was alive, and well, and out there somewhere, safeguarding the astrolabe, keeping it, and herself, hidden. Hidden, it turned out, from whatever evil had possessed Artie, who seemed to want the astrolabe more than he wanted anything else.

Everything happened so fast after that. Leena’s spirit or aura or whatever guided Pete to Helena’s research on the dagger, and it was both a painful and joyful experience to see Helena’s familiar handwriting sprawled across paper. Myka would’ve liked to read through it all, but she only had time to glance at the photocopied encyclopedia page on Francesco Borgia before Pete was folding up the photo of the dagger and they were off to Budapest, leaving the rest of Helena’s research with Claudia.

Myka had thought she was starting to come to grips with the idea that something else had possessed Artie, that he wasn’t himself any more, but in that museum, when he started railing against Pete, telling him he was two steps away from drinking again, she realized she wasn’t prepared at all. Wasn’t prepared to hear such vitriol in his voice, and sure as hell wasn’t prepared for him to turn that anger on her, to tell her she was going to end up _alone_.

She would’ve analyzed that accusation a little more, probably would’ve wallowed in it for a while given how good at wallowing she’d become lately, but there were more pressing concerns, namely not dying at the end of an invisible noose. And once Pete had cut the noose and they were on the ground again, Myka rationalized it all away, telling Pete that the terrible things Artie had said were just the things they feared about themselves. And as she said the words, they rang true, true enough that she could push aside what Artie had said, could focus on chasing after him instead.

They met up with Steve and Claudia and went after the orchid, and Artie, and somehow it went— _wrong_ , and the orchid dissolved in the air and Claudia ended up stabbing Artie after all.

It was only after they found the apparently immortal Count of St. Germain (or almost immortal—apparently an arrow to the heart was enough to kill him) and put the orchid back to rights that there was truly enough time to think about anything that wasn’t Warehouse related. And then, the _only_ thing that Myka could think about was the fact that Helena was out there somewhere, safe, and apparently had earned enough trust from the Regents to be tasked with hiding the astrolabe. And stuck as she was on a transcontinental flight with Pete, there was really only one thing Myka could think to do about it: finally tell her partner _everything_.

“Pete?” she asked quietly, brushing the pads of her fingers over her soulmark.

He looked up from the potato chips he’d been eating, the ones Myka had thought to buy in the airport for him before they left, knowing he’d finish everything he bought himself and still be hungry. “What?” he asked, hand halfway out of the bag.

Myka stared at him, taking in the familiar sight of him: his square jaw and dark hair, the cleft in his chin, his boyish smile that gradually shifted into puzzlement as she continued to stare.

“Do I have something on my face?” he asked, reaching up to wipe at his chin, his mouth, his nose, unwittingly smearing potato chip grease across his features.

She couldn’t help but laugh. “Now you do,” she said, plucking the napkin out from under his tiny plastic cup of soda and wiping his face for him with efficiency that reminded her of her mother when she and Tracy were kids. She swallowed, recalling her dad’s uneven writing spiraling around her mom’s ankle, _Warren Bering, nice to meet you_ , and her mom’s careful, loopy hand inscribed on the outside edge of her dad’s foot, _Oh, finally_ , and she sobered, her hand dropping away from his face. “That’s better,” she sighed.

Pete took the napkin out of her hand, wiping his fingers on it, and set the bag of chips on his tray table. “What’s up?” he asked, his brow furrowing. “You have your serious face on.”

Myka thought then of Pete’s soulmark which she’d seen quite a few times now over the course of their partnership, _At ease, soldier_ , written across his ribs on his left side, and about the fact that they’d never talked about it. “Did you know,” she said slowly, licking her lips, “that sometimes when we talk about Amanda, you touch your soulmark?” She didn’t think he did; when it happened, the action seemed absent-minded, almost accidental.

Pete moved away from her slightly in surprise. “I—I do?”

“Yeah,” she replied quietly. “Not every time, of course, but—often enough that I noticed.”

He looked down, away, pulling a chip out of the bag and then putting it back with a sigh. “Well I mean, yeah. I guess that makes sense.”

Cradling her wrist in her left hand, Myka said, “I know we’ve never talked about it—about soulmates, about our marks. And I know I’ve never really liked talking about mine, so it wasn’t like I was going to bring it up, but I always thought—I figured you’d ask one day.” She huffed a little laugh, and added, “Because you’re Pete, and you always seem to want to know everybody’s business.”

Pete was looking at her again, but he seemed hesitant. “Do you want me to? Ask, I mean? Is that what this is about? Do you wanna talk about it, Mykes? I always just thought you didn’t want to because you never brought it up. I mean, you’d seen mine, and you didn’t ask either, so I guess I thought…”

“Wow, Pete,” she said, laughing again, though it came out sounding hollow. “That’s…remarkably mature of you.”

“Hey, I can be mature!” he retorted, and this time when she laughed, there was true humor in it, even if there were tears just behind the laughter, tears that welled up in her eyes and threatened to roll right over. Myka sniffed them back and shot him a fond, if exasperated, look.

“I do want to talk about it, Pete,” she said, with something approaching a smile. “If that’s—all right with you?”

He laced his fingers together, leaned his elbows on his tray table, and propped his chin atop his hands, comically batting his eyes at her. “Okay, spill,” he said, in an exaggerated tone she thought was supposed to emulate _girl talk_.

She couldn’t help another snort of laughter, and quietly thanked the fates for sending her this man who always knew how to make her laugh. She wanted to hold on to that high for a little while longer though, before she divulged everything to him, so she shook her head. “You first,” she said.

Pete’s excited best friend visage fell away as he lifted his head and let his hands drop, picking up the potato chip he’d abandoned earlier. “It’s Amanda,” he said through a disgustingly crunchy mouthful. “Well, obviously, you figured that out already anyway, but you were right. It’s Amanda.” He was smiling absently as he wiped his fingers on the napkin again, and then he told her all about it: how he’d grown inured to the words written on his side at Quantico, how he’d been teased about them by other guys during training, who assumed he’d joined the Marines because of what they said. How he’d still _known_ , when Amanda said them to him, that she was the one, and he’d grinned and said to her, _I’m always at ease, ma’am_. How they’d fallen into bed together after that, even though Amanda had two marks, not just one, and how they’d jetted off to Vegas together the first time their leave coincided and gotten married. How they’d split up, and how Pete had learned, when they were at Amanda’s wedding, that her new husband was Amanda’s other soulmate. How Pete still loved her, thought he would always love her.

Myka listened quietly to the whole story, providing words of encouragement when he got emotional, laughing when he said something he obviously thought was funny. Until suddenly he stopped.

“And that’s, y’know, pretty much it,” he said, reaching over her to pass his trash to a passing flight attendant. Myka was sure he was already thinking about food again. Luckily they were on a transcontinental flight and there would be another “meal” before they landed stateside, so she wouldn’t have to listen to him complain about how hungry he was for too long, if (or when, really, because it was inevitable) he got around to complaining. “What about you?” he asked, jolting her out of her thoughts. He jerked his chin towards her soulmark, which she hadn’t even realized she was touching. “Who’s _Sorry_? Is it someone I know?” He cocked his head, his brows drawing together. “Was it Sam?” he asked, sounding more curious than pitying or sympathetic.

She swallowed, hard, because she hadn’t figured he would ask her flat out who it was. She’d figured, after the story he told, that she’d be allowed to tell her own tale, and that she’d have time to build up to who it was, that she could at least warm to the topic by talking about how hard it had been just to have _Sorry_ as her soulmark. But Pete hadn’t given her that chance, and Myka’s mouth worked soundlessly, trying to find a way around the question. In the end, though, she thought that perhaps it was better to do it up front, and quickly, like ripping off a band-aid. So she took a deep breath, let it out, and said, “It’s Helena.”

Pete blinked at her, and for a moment, he looked like he’d tasted something sour, but then his face leveled into an expression that, on him, meant thoughtfulness. “Oh.”

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything else, and Myka felt her stomach roll. “Is that it? That’s all you have to say?”

“No,” he replied, leaning back in his chair. “It just—it makes sense, is all.” He frowned. “H.G., huh?” She sighed and nodded, and suddenly, Pete snapped his fingers, his face brightening. “That time—after Sykes and the bomb—you guys totally _were_ making out, weren’t you?!”

Myka punched him.

“Ow,” he said, grabbing his arm.

She looked away, back down at her soulmark. “Helena, she—she makes me feel _alive_ ,” she said, her eyes tracing the familiar lines of the word inscribed on her skin. “Like nothing else in the world matters but her.”

This time, it was Pete who sighed. “I know what you mean,” he said glumly. “Amanda always made me feel that way, too.”

“I’m sorry she married someone else,” said Myka, holding out her hand, and smiling when Pete took it.

“I’m sorry H.G.’s hiding out somewhere with the astrolabe,” he replied, giving her hand a squeeze.

“At least I know she’s safe now, and not being held by the Regents again.” Myka shook her head, reaching up with her free hand to push some hair out of her face. “It was driving me crazy, not knowing what had happened to her. Even if Mrs. Frederic doesn’t know where she is, at least she’s safe.”

“Now that we’ve dealt with the astrolabe, maybe she’ll come back,” suggested Pete. “I mean, Mrs. F probably told her about Claudia exorcising Artie, don’t you think?”

Myka’s mouth twisted, and she extricated her hand from his. “I dunno, Pete. Maybe.”

“Well, here’s hoping,” he said. “We should toast to that, don’t you think?” he asked, his expression brightening again as he unlatched his seat belt. “I’ll go get us some Sprite or something—something with bubbles, like champagne.”

She laughed, half out of amusement, half out of relief that someone, anyone at the Warehouse, knew about her and Helena. And it was Pete, and he was okay with it—seemed to support it, really, and what more could she hope for? Well, she could hope for Helena to come back, that was for sure. So Myka let Pete go, and when he came back with a can of soda, she didn’t protest the sugar content, just laughed and watched it fizz as he poured it into the tiny cups.

“To H.G. Wells,” said Pete, with a horrible imitation of Helena’s accent. When Myka laughed harder, he dropped the accent, and finished in his normal voice. “And here’s to hoping she’s back with you soon.”

That was definitely something she could drink to.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay in updating. This chapter was really, really hard to get out. Beware: there’s not much in the way of happiness in it, and it’s going to lead us right into the heartbreak that is Instinct. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!

The astrolabe was heavy in her bag—quite literally. It weighed significantly more than Helena had expected it to given its relatively small size. However, greater even than its physical weight was the metaphorical weight of the responsibility it represented. Protecting the astrolabe, she now knew, meant protecting her own life, as well as the lives of Steve Jinks and Mrs. Frederic, along with the existence of the Warehouse and the continued presence of hope in the world. If something were to happen to the astrolabe—if Brother Adrian were to get his hands on it—it seemed most likely that the world would revert to the apocalyptic state it had been in before Artie used the astrolabe in the first place.

Call it nobility, call it selfishness, but Helena wasn’t about to allow that to happen.

As such, she had followed every last protocol she and Mrs. Frederic had worked out. At first, it had seemed like a grand test of her abilities, an adventure of sorts; rather like being Agent 007 himself, even, with everything in her world revolving around secrecy, gadgetry, and false identities. But after six weeks, four vehicles (five, if she counted the sedan she had driven before Mrs. Frederic supplied the SUV), and no less than twenty-six different places of lodging—most of which were less than reputable establishments specifically chosen such that her propensity to pay in cash would not be questioned—she had grown tired of it all, tired of the constant motion, of looking over her shoulder to check that she wasn’t being followed, of sleeping with her Tesla beneath her pillow and one figurative eye open.

Helena Wells was, quite simply put, just _tired_.

More than that, she was _lonely_. In those six weeks she had driven all the way across the country twice, spending long days driving through nothing and nowhere, turning down empty farm roads and cruising down interstates, stopping for food or fuel, or when she found a likely place to stay, whether it be for a night or a few days. But all of this she had done alone—always alone, and that was most certainly not a good thing, or rather an _easy_ thing, for her to stomach. After more than a hundred years trapped with only her own thoughts for company, she found she did not relish the solitude now.

The simplest alternative, she had found, was always to have the radio on in whatever car she was driving, and to listen attentively to whatever she could find in order to prevent the ramblings of her own mind. As a result, she had learned a great deal more about popular music in the past two months on her own than she had even under Claudia’s careful tutelage. The sports broadcasts she sometimes listened to, however, were no clearer to her now than they had been when she had watched some of the games mentioned with Pete.

Worst of all, though, were the sections of the country, usually when she was driving back roads through a great deal of nothing, where the only options seemed to be static, or the ravings of evangelists who fancied themselves righteous men while they railed against “sinners” and “degenerates.”

(Helena had listened to only one of those preachers, and only for about ten minutes, before she decided the static was the better choice.)

Her forced exile from anyone who cared for her, anyone who might recognize her face, though, had made her appreciate all the more every interaction she had with a stranger, especially the positive ones. She came to love the banal nature of small talk made with shopkeepers and waiters and other people in line with her at the grocery store. It was predictable, certainly; there were only so many variations on talk of the weather, but that very predictability was enjoyable, was reliable, and she needed it like she had seldom needed anything in her life. Everything else in her life at the moment was so changeable that small talk became the lynchpin which held it all together. Each idle conversation was a reminder of what she was doing and why, grounding her in the normality of those strangers’ lives. She was on her own as much for them as for herself, and it was useful to have that reminder.

Chit-chat, however, could only carry her so far, and Helena longed for the satisfaction of making true connections, of actual _relationships_. So she began to allow herself that satisfaction, even if it was short-lived; she began to drag out her stays in the places where she stopped—five days instead of three, a full week, two weeks—and _reveled_ in the acquaintances she made, the people who began to smile when they saw her, who started to ask sincerely how she was doing. She found herself smiling more often, answering with more candor, and realized that those relationships, such as they were, filled a need of which she hadn’t been aware.

Helena was beginning to think what she _truly_ needed was a place to stop more permanently.

It would be fairly simple, she thought. She would be prepared to leave if necessary, would even attempt to make her life seem a transient one, one which could take her elsewhere at any time so that any friends she made wouldn’t be surprised she had jetted off. And if she had any doubts, the thrill she felt at the mere _idea_ of having _friends_ made up her mind for her. So Helena concluded that the next place she stopped, if she liked it well enough, would be her next place of true residence.

After a week’s stay in a comfortable inn in Boone, Wisconsin, Helena concluded she had found that place. Boone was small without being too small, its real estate seemed to be reasonably priced and not terribly hideous, and its people were kind and genuine with one another. Most importantly, Boone was unremarkable, and a safe two states away from the Warehouse.

It was, Helena thought, exactly the sort of place anyone associated with the Warehouse would never think to look for her.

She found a small apartment she could rent month to month, and began to build the same sorts of casual relationships which had sustained her for the past three months since she was entrusted with the astrolabe. She frequented shops and cafes and even, on a whim, signed up for a _cooking class_ , as eating out for every meal had grown rather tiresome, and she had never been a very good cook.

It was at that cooking class that she met Nate, who had seated himself near her by chance one day. He was a nice man with a decent sense of humor, but by and large he was every bit as normal and unexceptional as Boone itself, save one thing: his _very_ exceptional ten-year-old daughter, Adelaide, who had accompanied her father to the class one night, “to make sure he doesn’t hurt himself or something,” as Adelaide said.

When, at the end of that class, Adelaide promptly invited Helena to join her and her father on a picnic they already had planned for the following day, the girl had so thoroughly charmed her that Helena found it impossible to say no. It was equally impossible to say no when Adelaide then suggested that she and Nate should go out together on their own sometime. And when the date which Adelaide had orchestrated—for it was quite unmistakably a date when Nate showed up at the restaurant dressed in finer clothes than Helena had yet seen him wear, and with his hair carefully combed—went far better than she would’ve expected given that they had been set up by a ten-year-old, Helena began to wonder if this—her and Nate—was something she ought to consider.

On the one hand, she loved Myka as she had never loved anyone, not even Christina (for a mother’s love was very, _very_ different from the way she loved Myka). She was lucky to have had what she had with Myka, and if given the chance, would have returned to her. Instantly, if possible, and it would be foolish to risk that relationship for one that wasn’t a certainty.

But on the other hand, Helena’s relationship with Myka was far from being a certainty these days. Myka was, after all, a Warehouse agent, and by cutting Helena off from the Warehouse _and_ its agents, the Regents had ensured that their being together was an impossibility. Because of that, Helena didn’t dare allow herself to hope that their situation might, one day, change, that the impossibility might become, once again, possible.

And besides—she was supposed to be under deep cover, beyond the reach of the Warehouse, impossible to find. Nate was so utterly ordinary that no one would ever believe she, Helena Wells, would choose to be with him. So was there a better way to legitimate her cover than by going out with him? It would be beyond anyone’s expectations, and although Nate was not the person with whom she wished to spend her life, he might be able to bring her some small happiness. More so than most, given his extraordinary daughter.

So, though a great portion of her hated herself for it, Helena decided that it was in her best interest to keep seeing Nate. As time went on, as the first month of her residence in Boone turned to two months, as two months became three, she was grateful for Nate’s presence in her life—especially because Adelaide came with him. She was a gem, truly, as quick and sharp as Helena remembered herself being as a child. Perhaps because of that, Helena had been unable to resist teaching her, and Adelaide in turn had taken to the science of deduction like she was born to it.

However, as soon as she had begun to settle into her new life in Boone, into her small apartment and into her…whatever it was with Nate and Adelaide, she received a text from Mrs. Frederic informing her that the situation with the astrolabe had been resolved, and that Helena should return the astrolabe to the Brotherhood of the Black Diamond.

She had been with Nate and Adelaide at the time she received the text, and already Adelaide had learned enough from her to pick up on the quick look of surprise, and then perplexity, that crossed her face.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, and then held up her hands to stop Helena from answering. “Wait—don’t tell me. It’s…an old friend, or a colleague from before you moved here. And they…asked you to do something, but you’re…not sure you want to.”

Helena’s eyebrows raised of their own volition. “Quite good, darling. And how did you know?”

“Well,” said Adelaide, clearly warming to the task given the flush that rose in her cheeks and the glint in her eyes, “you never use that phone when you’re calling dad or someone else around here, so it must be from before. And I could see you were surprised to hear from them, and then you looked very serious, but you didn’t look sad, like someone had died, so I thought—it must be work or something like that.”

She smiled. “Bravo, my girl,” she said, “spot on.” And then, waggling the phone in the air, she added, “I’m afraid I have to go take care of this. If you’ll excuse me.” She smiled at Nate, bent to drop a kiss to Adelaide’s forehead, and walked out of the restaurant where they were having lunch only to dial the number that would connect her to Mrs. Frederic. If the situation with the astrolabe had truly been taken care of, then there was no risk in divulging her location.

As before, the phone rang many times; many more times than a normal phone would have, until at last Mrs. Frederic picked up. “Miss Wells,” she said, “I expected you might call.”

“Of course,” Helena replied. “If the situation is truly resolved, then am I—”

“Clear to return to your previous protocol? Yes. But I must warn that the Regents have not moved to change any of your directives.”

She felt her shoulders sag. “Then I am still not allowed to—”

“Contact the agents of the Warehouse? No.”

Helena dragged a hand through her hair. “So Myka…?”

“Is still off limits to you, Miss Wells,” replied Mrs. Frederic. And then, a beat later, she added, “I am sorry.”

“No,” she sighed, “don’t be sorry. It’s not as if it’s your fault, is it? In this, I have no one to blame but myself.” She paused, for only the slightest bit of time, and rather than let the conversation continue in the same vein, cleared her throat and changed the subject back to the safe topic of the astrolabe and the Brotherhood. The news on that front, however, was less than pleasant: the evil proved to be Artie himself, and Artie had killed Leena. And, in order to reverse the effects of the astrolabe, Claudia had stabbed Artie—with the very same dagger which Helena herself had been set upon. “Is Artie all right?” she asked.

“Physically he is fine. Emotionally, however…”

As someone who had inadvertently killed more than one of her fellow Warehouse agents, Helena could well imagine his emotional state. “I’m sure,” she said, reaching up to grasp her locket. She thought of how aggrieved she had been in Artie’s place, and let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. “Might I suggest you seek some sort of…professional help for him? I myself—that is, I believe if I had been granted the sort of…assistance you might find for Artie these days, then my path might have been quite a different one.”

Mrs. Frederic made a small noise of approval. “Yes…I shall take that under advisement. In fact…I may know just the person for the job.”

Helena nodded, and raked her hand through her hair again. “So the astrolabe should be returned to the Brotherhood?” she prompted, and they worked out the details of where she was to go, how she was to contact Brother Adrian.

“I appreciate your continued willingness to help the Warehouse, Miss Wells,” finished Mrs. Frederic. “If there comes a time when your case is before the Regents once again, you may count on me to speak on your behalf.”

She blinked in surprise, and gasped a thank you.

“You’re most welcome. And Miss Wells?”

“Yes?”

“I believe it might be to your benefit to find some kind of employment, now that you no longer need to be in hiding. I suggest you think about what you might like to do.”

Still surprised by the revelation that Mrs. Frederic seemed almost _eager_ to speak on Helena’s behalf to the Regents, she muttered a reply in the affirmative, after which there was a long pause filled with silence on both ends. Until finally—

“Agent Bering is doing—as well as can be expected, given the situation. I thought you might like to know.”

Suddenly, she found she couldn’t breathe. Her mouth worked silently, forming syllables and discarding them. Finally, she gasped out her thanks, and Mrs. Frederic said goodbye, leaving Helena, stunned and wide-eyed, standing alone on the sidewalk still clutching the phone. Nate and Adelaide would be waiting for her to come back in, she knew, but Helena couldn’t imagine explaining to them why she was so breathless, couldn’t imagine telling them about Myka—couldn’t so much as fathom a world in which the reality of Myka existed alongside Nate and Adelaide. After all, Helena had been cut off from the Warehouse for long enough at that point that she had started to adjust to the idea that she might never see or hear from Myka again; long enough, in fact, that she had begun to come to terms with the idea that happiness in the present was all she could hope for, and that Nate and Adelaide were, perhaps, the best chance she would find of that.

With one phone call—with one phrase—Mrs. Frederic had shattered the new reality she had built for herself.

If she so desired, Helena now knew, she could leave Nate and Adelaide and Boone behind, return to the safe house in Rapid City and wait around for someone to call her, to ask her to assist the Warehouse, like a dog waiting for scraps. And, worst of all, Helena knew she would be happy with whatever glimpses of Myka she was granted.

Or she could stay, and find some sort of happiness—or at least contentment—with Nate and Adelaide. They were not the thing that made her happiest in the world, but Adelaide was a marvel, and Helena was constantly in awe of the alacrity with which she picked up new ideas and new thought processes. And Nate was kind, and solid, and normal, and he was a widower who’d lost his soulmate, so when she had said something that suggested she, too, had lost her soulmate, he could relate, could support her. Of course, Helena’s soulmate was only “lost” in a technical sense, since Helena’s exile was so thorough, so total, that it had felt as if Myka were as good as dead. But Helena had certainly _felt_ the loss as if it were real, so did that lie of omission really count? She wasn’t sure that it did.

What was she to do?

Obviously the astrolabe had to be returned to the Brotherhood; there was no question about that. But once that was _done_ , what ought she to do? Return to Boone, to Nate and Adelaide and whatever sort of a life she could build for herself? Or return to the loneliness of the safe house in Rapid City, where she had no friends, no routine, and no personal effects, to wait for a call for help that might never come?

As she reached up to grasp her locket, she realized her hand was trembling, and forced herself to take deep breaths, to focus on the present moment—the sights and sounds and smells—to ground herself once more in reality. She was not trapped within her own mind, was not separated from her body; she was living in the present, and would do well to remember that.

And in the present, Nate and Adelaide were waiting for her inside the restaurant. So no matter what she chose to do after she returned the astrolabe to the Brotherhood, for the moment, she had a lunch to eat and companions to whom she needed to return. So once her pulse slowed a bit and her hands had stopped trembling, she returned to Nate and Adelaide, tucking her Warehouse-issued cell phone back into her purse and murmuring something to them—she wasn’t quite sure what—about “loose ends” at her previous job that needed to be tied up, and a trip that would have to be taken. She was grateful for the years spent lying to Charles and Christina about the Warehouse, because it seemed she fell right back into that pattern, pulling excuses from thin air that sounded entirely believable even to her own ears. So believable, in fact, that she was almost—almost—able to fool herself into thinking everything was fine and normal and that she had not just been granted a reprieve from her total isolation.

Once the lunch was over, however, and she had returned to the cramped and lonely apartment that was, nonetheless, _hers_ , the illusion dissolved, and she was once again hit full force with the notion that Myka was, in some small way, available to her again, as the order for her disappearance had been rescinded. Though Helena only had one number programmed into her Warehouse cell phone, she had memorized Myka’s cell number long ago; it took every ounce of will power she had not to punch it into the phone just so she could hear Myka’s voice. Well, will power and several reminders that breaking the established rules of her existence outside the Warehouse could result in her freedom being revoked.

The temptation was strong, though, strong enough that Helena was glad of the reprieve brought by her trip to Rome to return the astrolabe to the Brotherhood. The trip itself created temptation in other forms though, of course; Helena found she was unable to resist the sudden compulsion she felt to buy a postcard. She even wrote out a message, but she didn’t allow herself to purchase the stamp that would send it on its way. Instead, the postcard got tucked safely inside the latest book she was reading, the fresh ink imprinting itself on the pristine pages, mixing her old-fashioned hand in with modern typeface.

_My dearest Myka,_

_I know you are weary of my apologies, but I should like to apologise for being out of contact with you for so long. Contact with you was forbidden me by our mutual friends the Regents. This is no excuse for my silence, but you deserve an explanation._

_Being in Rome alone has made me miss you terribly. If I were able, I would return to you at once. As things are, I am likewise forbidden from doing so. Instead, I must simply hope for the day when I might see you again._

_With all my love,_

_Helena_

When she arrived back in Boone, the novel was shelved along with the many others she owned, the postcard within and the danger it could pose to her freedom safely contained by her bookcase. She didn’t forget about it, precisely, but she didn’t allow herself to remove it, for fear her hands would betray her heart by affixing a stamp and placing it in the mail.

Instead, the postcard remained where it was, bearing silent witness as she moved on with her life and attempted to forget about the possibility of Myka; as she got a job in forensics with the Boone police department; as her relationship with Nate became more serious; as Nate asked her to move in with him and Adelaide. It was only when Helena was packing her things that she actually saw the postcard again, actually held it in her hands. The ink was smudged and one corner was bent, but the image of St. Peter’s Square was as bright and sharp as it had been when she made the purchase three months before.

Helena ran her fingers across the script, feeling the subtle indentations left by the ballpoint pen she’d used and thinking to herself of her writing on Myka’s skin.

Adelaide found her that way, postcard in one hand, book in the other, the box of books she’d been packing left only half full at her feet. “Emily?” she asked. “What’s that?”

She blinked, broken from her reverie, and glanced up at Adelaide before tucking the postcard carefully back in between the pages of the novel. “Oh, nothing,” she said, still unable, or more accurately, unwilling, to allow Myka into the life she had made for herself in Boone. “Just an old postcard.”

Of course, Helena knew her face said it was more than “nothing,” that it was something important to her, or that it once was. And she knew likewise that Adelaide was a bright girl, and would know Helena wasn’t telling the whole truth. She took a deep breath, preparing herself for Adelaide’s questioning, but the girl merely grinned up at her.

“Not that. The book!” she said, pointing. “I didn’t know you’d read Harry Potter!”

Relief coursed through her, and Helena smiled. “Yes, well,” she said, turning the book in her hand, recalling how she’d bought it in the airport on the way to Rome on impulse because she’d seen the first four or five Harry Potter books in Adelaide’s room. “I knew you liked them, and I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.” And just like that, Myka was tucked away again, held safely inside Helena’s heart, cherished alongside the daughter she had lost.

So Helena moved in with Nate and Adelaide, and she filled her days with the two of them, and with her job, with the puzzles the crimes she investigated presented to her. Of course, Nate was no substitute for Myka, and Adelaide was no substitute for Christina, but being around them helped anyway, helped fill the cracks and the spaces that ached for the love and presence of people who she was beginning to think she would never see again in her lifetime. Nate soothed her with his steadiness, while teaching Adelaide and watching her grow brought her pride and joy and satisfaction she hadn’t felt in a long, long time. And so the months passed, and so Helena came to be—in a way—happy.

Until one night she was called in to take forensic evidence from a man who’d turned himself in for committing a crime, and she watched as, before her eyes, the dark hair on his fingers disappeared, and the prominent ridge above his eyes receded, and she knew, instantly, that an artifact had to be involved in the man’s case. Exactly _how_ , she couldn’t be certain, but she knew that the Warehouse needed to be notified.

Naturally, since she only had one person she was _allowed_ to contact, she sent a text to Mrs. Frederic immediately. It took quite some time for Mrs. Frederic to answer, but this was not unusual; what was unusual, though, was the response that she sent: _I haven’t the time to bring this to Arthur myself. Consider this my permission to contact the team directly._

Helena had stared at the answer for quite some time, trying to process the fact that Mrs. Frederic had given her carte blanche to contact the Warehouse. Her heart pounded in her chest, in her throat, in her ears, as hope surged, and then she did her best to crush it. After all, there was no guarantee that Myka would come to Boone to search for the artifact, and it was entirely likely that the Regents’ directives regarding her lack of contact with the agents would continue once the artifact had been neutralized anyhow.

She had a good thing with Nate and Adelaide. Did she really want to risk it?

But the artifact would need to be neutralized, and now that she’d brought it to Mrs. Frederic’s attention, she couldn’t let it fall by the wayside. So though her stomach churned with anxiety at the thought of what she might be getting herself into, she picked up the phone, and she dialed Myka’s cell.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we are: Instinct is happening. I watched the episode probably a total of at least five times through to get all the details right, but the greater portion of this chapter is actually off-screen time; the conversations Myka and Helena might have had in between the things we see happen on the show. Naturally, that means this is a lot more heavily focused on the Bering & Wells than it is on the case.

Now that everything with the astrolabe was well and truly finished, now that the orchid was restored, Artie was recovering, and the Regents had cleared him, life at the Warehouse was a lot of business as usual. Or at least, it would have been, if Leena had still been with them, but instead, when they weren’t out snagging artifacts (that was the “business as usual” part), they were all playing catch-up, trying to fill in the gaps that Leena’s death had left in the Warehouse. There was a long list of actions that needed to be taken to keep certain artifacts happy, and the backlog of other artifacts waiting to be shelved was, frankly, absurd. But with persistence, cooperation, and a healthy amount of shouting at Pete, the team got through Leena’s list. After a month, Myka had taught Steve enough of the characters on the Feng Shui Spiral that he could usually find shelves for artifacts by himself, which meant that Myka’s time was freed up for other things on the list, like helping Pete catch errant balls of static electricity in the massive Warehouse library.

Of course, that ended up with them trapped _inside_ an Anthony Bishop novel, but honestly, Myka found it a little hard to be upset by that when she’d loved Bishop’s books for as long as she could remember. And then again, Myka supposed that meeting Anthony Bishop in person was nowhere near as impressive as meeting H.G. Wells—as _loving_ H.G. Wells. Thank god she’d told Pete about her and Helena, because otherwise it probably would’ve felt weird to talk to him about love stories like _Kiss Me, Forever_.

She was relieved, really, that Pete knew. She still hadn’t told any of the others—and definitely not Artie, especially given what he was going through after the astrolabe—but at least she had Pete, which meant she didn’t have to keep it to herself when she was missing Helena or wanted to talk about her. Not that Pete had any brilliant insight, so to speak, but he was always nice and supportive about it, and plus, he’d had a vibe that they’d see each other again.

“What d’you mean?” Myka had asked when he said that. “Like she’s coming back to the Warehouse?”

“I dunno, Mykes, it’s just a vibe. I feel like we’ll see her again, but I dunno how or—or when.”

“Sometimes I wish your vibes could be a _little_ more specific,” Myka had sighed, and Pete had shrugged and apologized for not being more helpful.

She had no idea just how much she’d wish for that, though, until one morning like any other at the B&B, her cell phone rang, and without thinking, she got up from the table and answered.

Through the other end of the line came a voice she would’ve recognized even in her sleep. “Hello, Myka.”

“Helena?” she asked, turning to look at Pete, who was wrist-deep in the box of Wheat-Os. He looked surprised, and then grim, and Myka couldn’t help but wonder what her own face looked like.

“Yes, it’s me,” replied Helena, and she sounded…reluctant? Like she didn’t want to be making this phone call, maybe.

“What—” started Myka, but she wasn’t even sure what the question was going to be.

“I—I have a case for you. For the Warehouse, that is. Are you—available?”

She frowned, crossing her right arm across her chest, hugging the soulmark on the inside of her wrist close to her heart. Of _course_ the first time Helena bothered to contact her, it was for Warehouse business, and not because she just wanted to talk to her. “So that’s—that’s it? You’re calling because of an artifact?”

Though her eyes had sort of glazed over, she could still see, distantly, that everybody at the table was grimacing—Pete, Claudia, even Steve, who couldn’t have spent more than a few minutes with Helena. Then again, she was probably pretty transparent about her feelings. After all, even if Claudia and Steve didn’t know she and Helena were soulmates, Claudia had certainly known they were more than just friends, and after what she’d said to Steve in New Orleans about wishing she knew where Helena was…he probably knew too.

Oh, god. Did Artie know, too?

Not that this was any time to be thinking about Artie!

Helena paused before answering. “Yes. I know you don’t like to hear this from me, but I am sorry. There are—things to be said, of course, but…” Myka heard her sigh through the phone, but it sounded exasperated. “Do you have a case at the moment or not?”

“No,” she breathed, blinking rapidly and then looking back at Pete, who was staring at her intently, still frozen with his hand partway into the cereal box. “No, we don’t have a case. Where…where are you?”

“Wisconsin,” said Helena, and Myka felt her frown deepen, because really? It had been more than nine months since they’d last seen each other, and Helena was only two states away, and she hadn’t bothered to call before now? Myka heard herself scoff, but before she could say anything, before she could chew Helena out over the phone, Helena herself went on. “Boone, Wisconsin, to be specific. I have a—job there. Here. And in the course of doing said job, I was witness to some effects which could doubtless only be attributed to an artifact of some kind. I don’t know much more than that, but I am, shall we say, rather unprepared to go artifact hunting on my own and would appreciate some assistance. If…if that’s possible, of course. I know you have quite a lot of demands on your time, and I wouldn’t dare—”

“No,” cut in Myka, gesturing with her free hand as well. “That’s fine. Pete and I will just—” She glanced at Pete, who had finally put the box of cereal back on the table; he was nodding at her. “A flight to Wisconsin from here can’t take more than a few hours. Can I call you back at this number?”

“Yes.”

“All right then. I’ll call you when we’re getting close to Boone and you can let me know where we should meet you. For the case.”

“Yes, that sounds—”

“Great. Okay. Um—bye,” said Myka, and hung up the phone before Helena could say anything else.

A great rush of breath left her lungs all at once, and Myka sagged back into the chair she had vacated at the table just as Abigail called down the stairs, “I’m coming! Don’t leave without—” She stopped as she realized everyone was still sitting at the table. A glance around revealed that they were all wearing expressions of varying degrees of surprise and concern. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What happened?” asked Abigail.

Claudia was the first one to snap out of it. “Pete and Myka have a case,” she said, pushing up from the table. “And you’re ready, and they don’t need our help, so we’re going to go meet Artie now. Jinksy, c’mon.” Steve looked like he wanted to say something, but Claudia practically hauled him out of his chair. “You guys go—suit up or whatever. I wonder what the weather’s like in Wisconsin this time of year? Maybe you should find out,” she added, pushing Steve and Abigail towards the front door. “Hats! Don’t forget your hats, children! We’ll need ‘em out by the FISH.”

Just like that, they were out the door, leaving her sitting at the table with Pete, feeling…a bit like she’d been punched in the gut. She blinked and stared out the window, unseeing, still reeling from the fact that Helena had contacted her— _her_ specifically—only to ask for help with a _case_ , of all things.

Really, why hadn’t she called before?

“Mykes?” asked Pete, snapping her out of her daze.

“Huh?”

“Are you all right with this? With going to Wisconsin or whatever to help H.G.? I could call Claudia, have her bring Jinksy back, and he and I could—”

Myka turned a look on him that said something like _How could you possibly think I would pass up any chance to see H.G. in person?_

Pete winced. “Yeah, okay, good point,” he murmured, and then they were looking up flights together, and decidedly _not talking_ about the fact that they were going to Wisconsin to see Myka’s soulmate from whom she hadn’t heard in the better part of a year. They decidedly did not talk about it on the flight, either, but when they were waiting in line at the rental car place there was basically no more putting it off. “Mykes, you need to call her,” Pete said quietly as they moved forward in the line. Myka made a noise that she would deny was a whimper. “We have no idea where we’re going. I know this kind of—” Myka sent him a dirty look, and he changed modifiers. “Okay, it _majorly_ sucks, but we need to know where to meet her, or if she has any new intel about the artifact.” When all she did was wring her hands, Pete gave her a worried look. “Do you want _me_ to call her? Because I will if you need me to.”

“No,” Myka replied quickly, curling her hands into fists to stop her own fidgeting. “I should suck it up and do it. It’s just—it’s hard, you know?” Pete nodded sympathetically, and Myka flashed him as much of a smile as she could muster. “I’ll just—be over there,” she said, waving vaguely and reaching into her pocket to pull out her cell.

She had to take a few deep breaths before she could convince herself to dial the number Helena had called her from, but then Helena answered after only a couple of rings—like, perhaps, she had been waiting for Myka’s call. “Myka?” she asked, sounding a bit breathless. Her voice stopped Myka short and she forgot, for a moment, why she’d called.

“Uh, hi.”

“Are you—are you nearby?”

With another deep breath, Myka glanced at Pete, who was now at the rental company’s counter. “Yeah. Yeah, we’re just about to leave the airport.”

There was a pause on Helena’s end, and the faint sound of—clinking glassware, maybe? “I’m not off work yet, so I suppose—yes, it would probably be best if you joined me here, at the police station.”

For a moment Myka had the irrational worry that Helena was in some sort of trouble, about to be put in jail or something, but she had just said she wasn’t off work yet, which meant she _worked_ at the police station. But that was confusing too, and Myka found her brow furrowing. “Okay?”

“Ask for me at the front. That is, ask for Emily Lake. I’ll make certain the uniform on duty knows you’re coming.”

“Okay,” repeated Myka, still bewildered.

“I must be off, but I’ll see you soon?”

“Yeah,” replied Myka, and before she could add “see you soon,” Helena had hung up.

“Why is she so confusing?” she murmured to herself as she tucked her phone back into her pocket just as Pete approached.

“So, where’re we meeting up with H.G.?” he asked, twirling a set of keys around his finger.

“The police station, apparently. And I’m driving,” said Myka, plucking the keys from his hand. She had too much anxious energy to even consider sitting in the passenger seat while Pete drove. After all, driving would give her something focus on that wasn’t Helena—and the weird feeling in the pit of her stomach that Myka didn’t dare to call hope.

Once they got to the station, they had to go through the standard procedure of flashing their badges to justify the guns they carried. Then the uniform at the front desk gave them directions that ended up taking them to a lab, where they found Helena in a white lab coat and gloves. She looked up at the sound of the door opening, cried “Myka!” and smiled the most beautiful, genuine smile Myka had seen on her face possibly…ever. “It’s so good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too, Hel—” she stopped herself, remembering Helena was sort of undercover here, and shifted her weight from foot to foot. “Emily,” she finished, looking away. When she looked back, the brilliant smile was gone from Helena’s face, and she looked—sad. But it only lasted for a second before Helena’s face went carefully blank, and she moved to grab a tray of test tubes. “So you’re a lab tech,” Myka said, more because she couldn’t bear the silence than any other reason. Except maybe that she just wanted to hear Helena’s voice.

“Forensic scientist,” corrected Helena, rambling about how it was a “natural fit” for her, and ending by telling Pete, as Myka always had to, to stop touching things. But in her own special Helena way, by telling him what he was touching was actually disgusting enough to make him regret touching it in the first place.

“I understand _how_ you’re doing this,” said Myka, feeling the knot of anxiety that’d been in her stomach since Helena first called her twist and tighten unpleasantly. “What I don’t get is _why_.” And that was what it boiled down to, wasn’t it? Why the hell was Helena pretending to be a lab tech in some city in Wisconsin when she could’ve been at the Warehouse, with Myka, hunting artifacts? The astrolabe was safe, after all, so why did she stay away? “What happened?” she asked, feeling desperation creep into her tone. “We—we haven’t heard from you in months.” What she meant, of course, was _I_ haven’t heard from you in months, but she hardly had to spell that out. Helena would understand it without Myka having to say so.

“I was under strict orders not to contact anyone while I had the astrolabe,” said Helena, glancing at the door as if to make sure no one was paying them any attention. “After returning it to the Brotherhood, I wanted a new life.” Now she looked away, and gestured with one hand, as if she could brush away Myka and the Warehouse and everything that went with it. “One far away from the world of artifacts,” she finished, and Myka felt something inside her crack, because Helena had _chosen_ to stay away from her, to live her life without her.

Had the time and the distance from Myka changed Helena’s mind? Had she forgotten those feverish minutes spent pressed back against Myka’s bedroom door, the desperate way they had kissed one another, like they were the last two people on Earth? Myka certainly hadn’t, but it seemed like maybe—just maybe—Helena had.

As if to dismiss the matter out of hand, Helena continued on, bringing their conversation to the case, and Myka, for all that she felt her heart folding in on itself in sadness and defeat, let her do it. Because what else was she here for? There was no way this kind of a trip would’ve been sanctioned if it weren’t for the involvement of an artifact. No way Artie would’ve let them scamper off to Wisconsin when he was worried about earthquakes and wanting to pay a visit to the FISH since even after the alternate timeline and Helena’s sacrifice, he still didn’t seem all that crazy about her.

So Myka did her best to bury her feelings, to disregard Helena’s writing on her wrist—very visible given the way she’d pushed the sleeves of her jacket up to her elbows—and the crushing sense of defeat, while Helena prattled on about the case and Pete looked on, stone-faced. Until eventually, Helena said she’d never seen an artifact with effects like the one in question—and that since she didn’t really know anything about the artifact itself, she’d very much appreciate being left out of their investigation, thank you.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do,” she said, looking down and away and basically anywhere but at Myka, even though her arms were folded over her chest and Myka could see the fingertips of her left hand tracing the spot on her right bicep where Myka knew her soulmark was. But even if Helena was thinking about their connection—which obviously she was—she was also asking for them to leave her alone.

Her words and her body language were so obviously at odds that Myka just wanted to go over there and shake her, to ask her what the hell was really going on, what was making her act this way. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it, so she turned on her heel and left Helena’s lab instead, and promptly started babbling at Pete, more wondering aloud than actually asking his opinion. “She wants to give up a life of endless wonder and be a normal person?” she asked, and aloud it sounded even more absurd. “She is not a normal person. She’s H.G. Wells!” she cried, and she would’ve gone on, but Pete gave her a sympathetic look and then, because he knew her too well, sidetracked her with the case.

And as they talked to the guy who’d turned himself in, the case rapidly became more interesting, because whatever the artifact was, it had scared their supposedly guilty party so much he couldn’t even think about it, much less talk about it. The _supposedly_ part proved pretty interesting, too, since after some investigation, it seemed that their perp’s partner sure as hell couldn’t have done it, because he was already in lockup somewhere else that night. Eventually they hit a dead end, and the only way to keep pressing forward was to get their hands on the CCTV tapes from the night before for the police department’s parking lot. And since, as Pete pointed out, Boone’s defense attorney had already forbidden them from talking to the city’s police officers, there was really only one thing left to do: exploit their one connection within the department who was _not_ an officer, namely Emily Lake.

Myka was glad of it; it gave her a legitimate excuse to go seek Helena out that wasn’t just something personal.

Though she didn’t already have Helena’s address, it was shockingly easy to find her; all she had to do was flash her badge at the uniform on the front desk and say she needed to speak to Ms. Lake again regarding the case she was working, and a minute or so later, she was being handed a slip of paper with Helena’s address. Then, since Pete had taken the car to do some investigating on his own, Myka hailed a cab before she could second guess herself.

Of course, once she got _out_ of the cab, and looked at the lovely house that corresponded to the address, she felt her nerves resurge, and she hesitated for a long moment on the front walk. Helena had asked not to be involved; did Myka really have a right to barge into her house and demand her assistance?

But then, Helena was the one who’d called in the disturbance in the first place. If she wasn’t willing to help, would she really have done that? And besides, they were _soulmates_ , for crying out loud! If she couldn’t talk to Helena, couldn’t ask for her help, what did that even mean?

Myka knocked on the door, and Helena answered, but before Myka could make the big ask, a man came to the door behind Helena, shortly followed by a girl who couldn’t have been older than twelve or so—Nate and Adelaide, apparently, and judging by the fact that they had already been inside Helena’s house, and by the fact that the girl was wearing a _gi_ , they probably lived there too. With Helena. Which meant that this—man—was probably sharing her bed at night. Myka’s smile faltered a little bit as Helena fumbled to introduce her, but the little girl—Adelaide—interrupted her and started making observations aloud like a tiny Sherlock Holmes.

She got it all right; every bit of it. Myka was a dear friend of Helena’s, Helena _was_ surprised to see her, she _was_ something like police, and they _had_ gone on amazing adventures. Lots of them. Myka was impressed, until the man—Nate—explained that Emily—Helena—had taught her how to do that.

Of course she had. And the look that Helena and Nate were sharing, that proud parent look, made something else in Myka break, so she forced an awkward laugh while Helena corrected Adelaide gently, saying that they were just college roommates, giving them some cover and, at the same time, totally discounting everything that had happened to and between them.

Really? College roommates? That was the best Helena could come up with?

But she couldn’t exactly tell them about the Warehouse, could she? So although Myka wanted to tell them that was all a lie, that she was Helena’s soulmate and that Nate and Adelaide didn’t know the first thing about Helena or her past, she’d worked for the Warehouse long enough that the secrecy around it had sunk into her bones. So instead, she just smiled and went along with the lie.

She had a mission here, after all, and upsetting whatever balance Helena had achieved with this man and his daughter wasn’t going to help her get the tapes she needed from that parking lot.

Nate invited her in, and Myka, unable to wrap her mind around the idea that Helena had spent the last however long living a lie here in Boone with some man and his kid, couldn’t bring herself to refuse the invitation. So the next thing she knew, Nate and Adelaide were excusing themselves to go out back, apparently to practice punches, and Helena was asking if she’d like some tea.

“Sure,” said Myka, with a hint of a smile. “That’d be nice.” _Like old times_ , she thought, but as Helena left her alone in the living room, she shook her head, because there was a picture on a side table of Nate, Adelaide, and Helena together, and that wasn’t like old times at all.

A kind of morbid curiosity kicked in, and Myka found herself wandering around the room, looking at the other photos that littered the room—mostly of just Nate and Adelaide, or Adelaide by herself, though there were a few of the two of them and another woman Myka assumed was Adelaide’s mother.

How weird was this? How strange that Helena was living in what felt like the middle of nowhere with a stranger and his daughter who knew nothing of the Warehouse and probably nothing of Helena’s actual past.

“Have a seat,” said Helena as she came into the room, carrying two mugs. Myka obeyed, sitting on one of the couches, and though she thought—hoped—for a moment that Helena would sit beside her, Helena sat on the adjacent couch instead. “Raspberry quince,” she added, setting one of the mugs down in front of Myka. “It’s Adelaide’s favorite.”

“Adelaide’s exceptional,” replied Myka, thinking about the impressive bit of deduction she’d displayed at the front door.

Helena agreed, and then said her father was, too, and Myka was forced to listen to her explain that she was trying something “different” right now, and that she felt like she belonged with them.

The very normality of it all made Myka want to throw up.

To distract herself, she circled back to the reason she’d come here in the first place, and asked Helena to help with the cameras. And of course, Helena tried to resist, tried to say she couldn’t be of any help to them, but Myka reminded her of the very same reason that had gotten her to knock on the door. “You called _us_ ,” she said, and still, Helena didn’t look totally convinced.

Okay. So maybe had had visions of showing up in Boone after Helena called, and them having a tearful reunion that involved a lot of kissing and maybe, later, some other stuff too, but that hadn’t happened. The reality was that Helena had chosen this man and his daughter over her and the Warehouse, probably because she wanted the chance to be a mother again, and it didn’t look like she was going to change her mind any time soon. So if Helena really was refusing to help them because she wanted nothing to do with Myka or the Warehouse or endless wonder, Myka was going to play on her emotions to get her to say yes. Because whether Helena liked it or not, Myka _was_ the one person who knew her better than anyone else, so she knew where to hit where it would hurt. “Don’t you think you owe it to Adelaide to have one more amazing adventure?” she asked, and she could tell from the look on Helena’s face that she’d gotten her with that one.

“All right,” she said, and though her tone sounded reluctant, there was a gleam in her eye that belied that notion. “I’ll be back.” She pushed up from the couch and went to the back door, and Myka heard her say something to Nate and Adelaide about having to go into the lab for a bit, and that she’d be home in time for dinner. Then she said something else—about Adelaide’s form, maybe?—and came back into the living room. “Let me get my coat, and we’ll go.”

With a smile of satisfaction, Myka stood up from the couch, grabbed their mugs, and carried them into the kitchen, dumping the rest of their tea in the sink. She had to hold onto the edge of the counter for a second at the thought that she and Helena would be alone—properly alone—together in just a few minutes, and had to remind herself that Helena was with Nate now, and that it would be wrong of her to do anything, to try anything. She had been the other woman once before, with Sam, but this was different. Even if she and Helena were meant to be together, Helena was with someone else, had _chosen_ to be with someone else, and Myka had to respect that.

Or had to _try_ to respect it, at least.

Helena called for her from the front door, and a minute later they were on the front stoop, Helena with keys in hand, wearing one of those beautiful leather jackets that Myka had always admired on her. “You didn’t drive over here?” she asked, looking with surprise at the driveway that held only one car—a station wagon that must have been hers or Nate’s.

“No, I took a cab. Pete has the rental.”

Helena didn’t look too pleased at that, but she gestured at the car. “All right then,” she said, and then Myka was treated to the somewhat strange experience of Helena’s driving, which was much less erratic, and a whole lot safer, than she had expected.

“Last time I was in a car with you driving it was definitely not this smooth a ride.” That was a bit of an understatement. The last time Myka had been in a car with Helena driving, it had been probably her third time ever driving an automobile, and she hadn’t yet grasped how to accelerate and decelerate smoothly. Myka had been worried she had whiplash afterwards.

“I’ve spent quite a few more hours behind the wheel by now,” Helena replied, sparing Myka a wry glance. Myka was prepared to press Helena about what she’d been up to since they last saw one another, but to her surprise, Helena offered the explanation without her having to ask. “I couldn’t speak freely with Nate and Adelaide just outside,” she said quietly, her tone neutral. “But I wanted you to know that I didn’t stay away entirely of my own volition. I was…forbidden from having contact with Warehouse personnel by the Regents.”

“I thought that was just while you had the astrolabe.”

“No. It is my punishment, it seems, for my past crimes. Nothing more than I deserve, I suppose.”

“I don’t understand.”

“After Sykes and the bomb,” Helena explained, with a deep, bone-weary sigh that made Myka want to hug her, reassure her, “I was put on trial again. The Janus Coin, after all, was meant to be my punishment for the…incident with the Minoan Trident, and yet I had, shall we say, escaped it. Thus, my current exile.”

Exile? Forbidden from having contact with Warehouse personnel? It took a moment for Myka to absorb the hidden meaning. “So you’re…trying to apologize without apologizing for the fact that you didn’t call me, even though you had my number the whole time.”

A hint of color rose in Helena’s cheeks. “Yes.”

“And you…all of this, with Nate and Adelaide and your job with the police…that’s all because you’re not allowed back at the Warehouse?”

Another one of those sighs from Helena. “Yes.”

There was only one problem with that. Well, actually, there were a lot of problems with that, but there was one that stood out. “But—but you _did_ call me. You called me to tell me there was a case.”

This time, Helena looked uncomfortable. “Only because Mrs. Frederic instructed me to do so. By all rights I ought not to have called you at all.”

“So…could you…are you going to get in trouble for having done that? For having called me?”

“Because it was a directive from Mrs. Frederic, I don’t think so. But If I had called you without her instruction? Quite possibly.”

“But there’s no telling what that could mean, what they might do to you for it. Is there?”

“No. The consequences were never explained, though given some of the options that were laid out as possible punishments for my actions,” she shot Myka a look heavy with significance, “I have no doubt they could be quite unpleasant.”

Myka was quiet, trying to put all the pieces together. Helena, cut off from the Warehouse, forbidden from contacting her. And yet—

“But you…you were looking for the dagger for Artie, before everything with the astrolabe. You were the one who figured out that it _was_ the astrolabe Artie had used!”

Helena looked uncomfortable again. “That’s true. I am allowed to…assist when called upon. That was, in point of fact, one of the conditions of my exile, as I believe the Regents did not wish to deprive the Warehouse of one of its resources.” She said the word _resources_ like it was distasteful, and Myka found herself nodding in agreement.

“That sounds just like the Regents,” she replied, reaching up to push her hair out of her face. “Wanting to punish you but not wanting to make their own lives harder because of it.”

And then what Helena had said truly sank in, and Myka felt indignation raise its head. “Wait. So…if _I_ called _you_ , it would be okay, but you can’t call me?”

After a moment of hesitation, Helena nodded. “I believe that is the case, yes.”

“Oh my god,” gasped Myka. “Are you serious? That’s _it_? It’s been radio silence from you because you couldn’t dial my number, even though you had it, and because I didn’t know how to contact you? _That’s_ why you’re here, in Boone, with Nate and Adelaide, and—oh my god. I can’t believe this.”

Almost on cue, Helena pulled the car into a parking space, cut the engine, and gave Myka another one of those looks. “Perhaps we can talk more about this later, but for now—” She looked at the police department building, and it was all Myka needed to remind herself what they were really supposed to be doing. Not talking about each other, or their lives, or Helena’s exile, or any of the things that Myka really _wanted_ to talk about. They were supposed to be working a case, and that’s why she was here in the first place.

“Oh god,” murmured Myka, shaking her head. She took a deep breath, gave herself a moment to try and pack everything away into its proper compartment, and then let the breath out. “Okay,” she said, and opened the car door.

Inside they went, pausing only to get Myka a visitor’s badge before they headed back towards the room Helena said contained all the surveillance equipment. Only when they got there, they were stopped by two uniforms.

And then Helena broke out her infamous charm, implying to the two officers that she was trying to impress Myka by taking her on a tour of the station, and just like that, they were in.

“Rock on, ladies,” said one of the uniforms, stepping aside.

Once they were out of earshot, Myka shook her head. “That was…disgusting, but quick thinking,” she said, following Helena into the surveillance room.

“Men are pigs, darling,” retorted Helena. “That, unfortunately, has not changed since my time. But sometimes it has its advantages.”

Myka wanted to respond to that, to ask if Nate was a pig too, but the computer station displaying current surveillance footage caught her attention, and she forgot what she was going to say. Instead she sank down in the chair in front of the monitors and started searching for the right time from the night before. It was a little hard to focus with Helena leaning over her, still inexplicably smelling of jasmine and machinery, just as she always had. Myka would’ve expected more of a…sterile smell, given that she worked in a lab now, but no—that was definitely the tang of metal and oil. Fortunately, she wasn’t so distracted that she couldn’t pay attention to the footage too, and soon they caught their perp Purcell coming into the station, looking like…a caveman.

She paused their search to dial Pete and put him on speaker while she and Helena combed through more footage, and then they got the real break they needed. One of the detectives, Briggs, had been waiting for Purcell to come into the station, handcuffs at the ready to make the arrest.

“Pete,” Myka said into the phone, “our killer with a deadly artifact is a cop.”

“Stay there, Mykes, I’ll come get you. Find Briggs’ address if you can, and we’ll go after him,” said Pete, the speaker on her phone making his voice sound tinny.

“Okay, but Pete?”

“Yeah?”

“Come quick.”

“You got it.”

Hanging up, Myka turned in her chair to look up at Helena. “Know how we can find Briggs’ address?”

“You’re already in the system,” said Helena, gesturing at the computer. “I imagine it’d be very simple to find his personnel file. But I can’t be party to this, Myka. I’ve already risked my job by bringing you in here, I can’t stay and watch you hack into secure files and expect that I won’t be—”

“Look,” Myka cut in, “there’s no real reason for you to stay here. I mean, if you’re here because of the Regents, I’ll talk to them. They’ll change their minds, they’ll have to—”

“Don’t.” Helena glared. “Just—stop it with all of that.” She glanced back towards the door, but though it was still closed, when she continued it was in a low voice. “I am here for a reason. I nearly brought the world to an end. I nearly killed you. _This_ is my penance, and I shall serve it.”

“With Nate. And Adelaide.” _And not with me_ , she wanted to add, but that was well enough implied.

“Yes.”

They stared at one another for a long, heated moment, until Helena stepped back, out of Myka’s personal space, and gestured towards the computer. “Go on. Find Detective Briggs’ address. I’ll be outside the door waiting, so if I’m asked I can say honestly that I wasn’t there when you broke into their systems.” She didn’t wait for a response, just turned and left, and Myka went back to the computer, cracking into their personnel files with a neat little trick Claudia had taught her. It took longer than she had hoped, but once she found the address of Briggs’ apartment, she set the computer back to the way it had been before she’d started using it and went back out into the hallway to find Helena standing there alone, grasping her locket.

“Pete will be here soon,” she said, letting go of her locket. “We should go.” Myka nodded and Helena led the way back to the front desk, where Myka dropped her visitor’s pass, and then they stepped out into the sunshine.

“This might be goodbye, you know,” she said quietly, and Helena’s eyes cut over to her sharply.

“What?”

“If I don’t talk to the Regents—if you want to stay here—we might not see each other again. If we’re lucky, Pete and I will go to Briggs’ apartment and he’ll be there with the artifact, and there’ll be no reason for us to stay. So we’ll leave, and you…I won’t see you again.” Helena, in turn, looked genuinely upset, which gave Myka a perverse sense of satisfaction. She was going to press the advantage it seemed to give her, too, when Pete pulled up with the car, the window down.

“Hop in!” he called.

Myka turned back to Helena, tucking her hands into her pockets although what she really wanted was to hug her, to kiss her. But Helena was with Nate, even if it was only out of—convenience, or whatever. “Goodbye, Helena.”

She watched Helena’s throat work as she swallowed, watched her fold her arms again. She half expected her to look away, but Helena’s eyes stayed locked on hers. “Would you…call me?” she asked. “Sometime?” There was something in Helena’s gaze that called to Myka, something like loneliness. “It’s not been easy, not knowing how you are.”

“I’ll call you,” replied Myka, and before she could question herself, she withdrew her hands from her pockets and pulled Helena into a quick embrace. “Bye,” she whispered, and climbed into the car without allowing herself to look back at Helena, even though Pete kept the car idling while she leaned forward and punched Briggs’ address into the GPS.

Once they were on their way, Pete glanced at her sidelong. “So what was that?” he asked.

“What d’you mean?”

“Whatever that—thing that happened was. With you and H.G. What was that?”

Myka sighed. “I’m not sure,” she said, dropping her head back against the seat. “But did you know the only reason Helena’s here is because the Regents cut her off from the Warehouse? As punishment for the stunt she pulled with the Minoan Trident.”

“What?” Pete shot her a disbelieving look. “Even after what Artie said, about her sacrificing herself?”

“I don’t know,” said Myka with a slight shrug. “We didn’t have enough time to talk about all the—the details. But apparently she’s not allowed to contact me. Us. Warehouse staff, I mean.”

“So that’s why we haven’t heard from her?” he asked, and Myka nodded wearily. “But wait. She called _you_.”

“I know,” she groaned. “But only because Mrs. Frederic told her to.” And though there was plenty of other stuff to say about Helena, they were on their way to apprehend a cop who’d been using a deadly artifact. So Myka pushed down her personal drama as best she could and told Pete about what she and Helena had found on the surveillance tapes instead, and by the time they pulled up to Briggs’ address, they were both caught up on the details of the case.

They burst into Briggs’ apartment with guns blazing, Myka with her service weapon and Pete with his Tesla, only to find the place was empty. Which meant they needed to find another way to find Briggs, or they needed more information about the artifact. So Myka started looking through the piles of case files Briggs kept in his place while Pete called Artie on the Farnsworth. And just as Artie suggested that Briggs might be changing into a predator, Myka opened a file and found, to her dismay, a bunch of paperwork with Emily Lake’s name on it. Copies of her Wyoming and Wisconsin drivers’ licenses, W-4 forms from the Boone police department and Lincoln High School in Cheyenne, tax returns, phone bills—but none of the paperwork was dated before 2010, which suggested Emily Lake had come into existence only three years ago.

(That much, Myka knew, was certainly true.)

“Pete, why does Briggs have all this info on Helena?”

Pete took the folder from her, glancing through the paperwork, finding the same thing she did. “Well obviously he’s figured out she’s not actually Emily Lake. And he probably knows we came to see her at the station the other day, about Purcell. Maybe—do you think he’s going to threaten her? Try and get her to make us back off?”

Myka looked at him with alarm. Briggs was carrying a deadly artifact, Artie had just said he was probably being changed into permanent “fight” mode, and he was going after Helena. Those did not make for a good combination.

“Pete we have to go. Now!” She threw the folder down and pushed Pete towards the door and off they went, Myka directing Pete towards Helena’s house. Well, Helena and Nate and Adelaide’s house, but—oh god. Pete didn’t even know about Nate and Adelaide. So she did her best to explain in between frantic directions. She probably didn’t do a very good job, but Myka was certain she at least got across the message that Helena was living with some guy and his daughter who had nothing to do with the Warehouse or any of it, and that they were probably just as much at risk as Helena herself was. More so, probably, since they weren’t trained like Helena was.

Pete jerked their car to a halt in front of Helena’s house as a guy with dark hair ran off—probably Briggs—but Myka was more concerned about the thing Helena was pointing to on the front lawn, and the way Nate was gasping for breath where he was slumped in the driveway. That’d be the artifact, then.

Sure enough, as soon as she and Pete dropped it in a neutralizing bag, Nate’s face went back to normal and he stopped sounding like he was struggling to suck in air. From the glance Myka had gotten of the artifact, it looked every bit as old as Artie had suggested; some kind of—animal jawbone, it seemed like.

“Let’s all go inside,” suggested Myka, and she actually bent to help Helena haul Nate up off of the ground. Once the front door closed behind them, she settled Pete and Nate in the living room with a laptop, instructed Pete to log on to the Warehouse server remotely and look to see if he could identify their artifact, and then joined Helena in the kitchen, where she was staring out the window, apparently unseeing.

“Helena?” she asked quietly. When she got no response, she approached her cautiously, and laid a gentle hand on her arm. “Helena?” she repeated. This time, dark eyes turned on her, and Myka could see the torment in them.

“I brought this on him. None of this would’ve happened if it weren’t for me.”

With a frustrated sigh, Myka pulled her hand away. “That’s not true. I mean, sure, it wouldn’t have been Nate who got whammied, but—”

“You see?” retorted Helena. “It _is_ my fault. He’s been nothing but kind and sweet to me and I repay him by bringing this—horror into his life.”

Balling her hands into fists at her sides, Myka shook her head. “Look, this is just—this is getting ridiculous, okay? You need to come back to the Warehouse. You need to let me talk to the Regents. The Warehouse is where you _belong_.” What she didn’t add was _you belong with me_ , but she knew Helena would see straight to that anyhow.

“Every time the Warehouse and I mix, lives are ruined,” replied Helena, and Myka couldn’t help but stare. “It’s over,” added Helena, and Myka saw the subtext of that just as clearly as Helena would’ve seen the subtext of what she’d said. _You and I are over_ , she meant. _It’s too dangerous for us to be together_.

Myka couldn’t disagree with that sentiment any more if she tried. Helena was _better_ when they were together. Myka had talked her down from ending the world with the trident. Myka had been the motivation Helena needed to figure out the chess lock. Myka was the reason Helena had sacrificed herself in the other timeline. They were better together, and Myka wished Helena would see that. But she didn’t know how to put that thought into words, not really, and what Helena had said— _it’s over_ —had cut her to the core. She was hurting. So she lashed out in a way only she would be able to, going straight for the thing that would hurt Helena most.

“Don’t you find it strange,” she said, “that you became attached so quickly to a man with a daughter around Christina’s age?” Helena, predictably, was immediately hurt and angry and upset with Myka for having said that, but Myka didn’t let her protest too much. She just kept moving forward, suggesting Helena was only here with Nate because of Adelaide, because she missed Christina and wanted her back. And Myka had to admit, at least to herself, that even if Helena chose her over Nate, if she chose to let Myka help her come back to the Warehouse, Myka wasn’t sure she was ready to take on parenthood. She wasn’t sure she could offer that to Helena—at least not right away. There were far too many things they needed to work out between themselves before that could even be a possibility.

“You are denying who you are to chase a ghost,” Myka said, feeling some small amount of vindication in the defensive way Helena had reacted. “This life? It’s not who you are,” she added, and she would’ve put in one last jab, one more phrase about how Helena belonged at the Warehouse, _with her_ , but Nate’s voice cut in.

“Don’t you hurt her!” he cried into his phone, and Myka’s stomach clenched with dread, because there was only one reason she could think of that he would say that. Briggs must have taken Adelaide.

Nate started panicking, wanting to call the cops, but Pete pointed out that the cops were sort of the problem in this case. “Why aren’t we getting help?” he cried.

“We are the help,” Pete replied, and Nate threw a hissy fit about not being able to trust any of them. Myka saw the stricken look on Helena’s face and wanted to comfort her, wanted to go after Nate, but she didn’t know what to say. So Pete followed quietly after Nate, and Helena, chest heaving, looking half on the verge of tears, stared after them.

“Helena—”

“Myka,” replied Helena, looking fierce and sad and beautiful, “you—you were right. You warned me.”

“About what?”

“I can’t have a _normal_ life,” she said, her eyes wet. A tear tracked its way down her cheek and Myka wanted to press forward, to wipe it away, to kiss her, to tell her everything would be all right. But she felt frozen in place, watching the waves of emotion crest in Helena’s eyes. “I—I was being foolish. Selfish.” She stood there, hands on her hips, and anger seemed to win over sadness. “How can I bring anything but _misery_ to—”

“No,” cried Myka, holding her hands up pleadingly. “That isn’t what I meant. Helena!”

“I know what I am!” shouted Helena, brushing Myka’s hands away. “I can’t just _sit here_. I know what I have to do,” finished Helena, storming off, and Myka felt tears welling in her own eyes at the anger Helena had directed at her. She’d earned every bit of it, of course, telling Helena she’d only picked Nate over her because of Adelaide, but…

Myka sighed. If Helena wanted to be here with Nate and Adelaide, that was her choice. Myka had no claim on her, not really. They’d kissed only the once. Sure, they were soulmates, but maybe it wasn’t supposed to be a romantic bond, maybe they were meant to be platonic soulmates, to be nothing more than friends who supported one another in whatever way possible.

Nate’s cell phone was on the coffee table, and the jawbone right there next to it, and Myka knew, suddenly, what needed to be done. What _she_ needed to do, to make things right again. She grabbed up both items, and the keys to the rental car Pete had left on the side table, and she left before anyone could stop her.

Only when she got to the address Briggs had texted to Nate’s phone, it turned out Briggs wasn’t working alone. He had the district attorney working with him, and before she knew it Myka was outnumbered and unarmed, with the D.A. holding both the jawbone and her service pistol. She tried to reason with him, to get him to let Adelaide go, but he just kept getting more worked up. Eventually she got him and Briggs arguing with one another, distracting them long enough that she could fight her way away from both of them, and run deeper into the building.

It was over pretty quickly after that. Pete and Helena showed up, Briggs and the D.A. were knocked out, the artifact was neutralized, and Helena fetched Adelaide from the back room where they’d been keeping her. The case was solved, which meant all that was left to do was to get Helena and Adelaide home, and for her and Pete to return to the Warehouse.

Only once they were standing in Helena’s driveway, it didn’t feel quite so simple. After all, Helena was still exiled from the Warehouse. But as Helena looked away, saying she wasn’t sure what would happen with her and Nate, Myka felt a bizarre surge of hope.

At least until Pete suggested she ought to go back in the house and figure out a way to make it work. Myka laughed at that, awkwardly, because she knew he was only trying to be supportive of whatever Helena chose, but at the same time, she wanted to hit him, because he knew exactly what she herself was hoping for, and Helena staying with Nate was _not it_. But he had the good grace to disappear into the car after that, leaving Myka and Helena standing together in the driveway, Myka trying to swallow back tears through her awkward laughter.

“So is this goodbye?” asked Myka.

“Well I would assume not,” replied Helena, with the kind of smile that made Myka’s pulse speed up just a little bit. The kind of smile that suggested she wouldn’t be opposed to Myka leaning forward and kissing her goodbye. But Myka could see Nate through the picture window in the front of the house, and that kind of…put a damper on any ardor she might’ve been able to summon.

So instead of saying any of the things she could’ve said, about loving Helena, about hoping she’d come back to her one day, Myka reminded herself of what she’d thought earlier, about their connection perhaps being a platonic one, and told Helena to fight for Nate. “I was wrong when I said you weren’t being true to yourself,” she said, even though she could still feel the burning threat of tears behind her eyes. “Maybe I was just afraid of losing a friend. But caring for someone…you’re obviously very good at it. So make this,” she trailed off, looking away, summoning the courage to let Helena go, and then finished, “make this your home.”

If she couldn’t have Helena with her, if they weren’t meant to be together that way…the least she could do was let Helena know she wanted her to be happy. Right?

“Thank you,” said Helena quietly, and Myka wasn’t sure how to read her expression. Had it really been so long that she’d forgotten how to read her? “And—and you will never lose this friend,” added Helena, stepping into her personal space in that way she had, her long-fingered hands curling around Myka’s forearms, the left hand sliding down to wrap around her wrist, covering her soulmark, removing any doubt Myka might have had that Helena didn’t value their connection as much as Myka herself did.

“Good,” blurted Myka, chuckling through the tears that were welling in earnest now, and she drew Helena into her, wrapped their bodies together in an embrace the likes of which she hadn’t experienced since the night after everything with Sykes. It made her lips tingle with the memory, but she tried to quash the feeling, because Helena was staying here—with Nate—and Myka needed to do her best to accept that, maybe even to try and move on.

“So,” said Myka, widening her eyes, trying to suck back the tears, “I guess I will see you around.” After all, if she came to Helena, nobody could get upset, right?

“Until then,” said Helena, opening the car door for her, and Myka climbed inside, feeling a little dizzy for the scent of jasmine and machinery that seemed to cloud around her.

“Maybe just—coffee next time,” suggested Helena through the window.

“Or save the world,” retorted Myka. “See what happens.” Helena’s smile faded, and she stepped back from the car, but the minute Pete put it into gear she seemed to summon another, and they smiled at one another in the dark until Helena was out of sight, at which point, Myka turned to face forward in her seat again, feeling suddenly heavy. She realized, abruptly, that the tears that had been threatening were now slipping down her cheeks, and she scrubbed at her face with her hands, trying to wipe them away, push them back down.

And then, just as suddenly, the car stopped, and Pete was pulling her into his shoulder and telling her not to fight it. So Myka stopped fighting, and she let the tears come, the same big, heaving gulps and sobs that she’d cried when Kosan had taken Helena away, the kind of ugly crying she never let herself do unless she was alone. And all the while, Pete held her to him, murmuring soft reassurances in her ear. Because of that, the crying subsided much sooner than it otherwise might have. Pete leaned over her to pull a stack of napkins from the glove box, and after Myka had wiped her face and blown her nose, she murmured her thanks to him.

“Any time,” Pete replied, napkins still in one hand. “D’you wanna, y’know, talk about it?”

Myka shook her head. “Not yet,” she said, and Pete just nodded and put the car back in gear.

It was too late to catch a flight home, so Pete pulled up to a motel with a neon VACANCY sign out front, the kind of cheap but probably clean establishment Artie preferred they utilize to save his budget. Pete parked the car in front of the door to the lobby, and Myka, who was usually the one who checked them in when they were in situations like this, hesitated as she went to unbuckle her seatbelt. A quick glance in the side mirror showed her face was blotchy and her eyes were red-rimmed. “Could you…?” she asked, gesturing towards the lobby.

“Yeah,” replied Pete quickly. “Yeah, of course.” He scrambled to undo his own seatbelt, and Myka put out a hand to stop him.

“Just one room?” she asked, bone-weary. “I don’t…I don’t think I should be alone tonight.”

“One room, two beds,” said Pete, with one of his reassuring Pete smiles. “You got it.”

Myka murmured her thanks and sank back into the seat, closing her eyes. She was glad, in a way, that they weren’t going straight back to the Warehouse. It meant she wouldn’t have to face everyone so soon after saying goodbye to Helena.

She must’ve dozed off, because next thing she knew, Pete was parking the car and then grabbing their just-in-case travel bags (the ones they always packed when they went out on a case, because they never knew how long a snag and bag might take) from the trunk. She felt dazed and detached as she climbed out of the car, as Pete closed a gentle hand around her elbow and guided her to their room, as he sat her on one of the beds and disappeared into the bathroom. She could barely summon the energy to take off her jacket and shoes and crawl under the sheets before she fell asleep again, too drained to do anything else.

When she woke in the morning, she could hear Pete snoring in the other bed, and the sight of him in a faded t-shirt from his time in the Marines, tangled in the sheets and his jaw dark with stubble, was quite possibly the most comforting thing she could imagine. He had done everything right the night before, and she felt her heart swell with gratitude towards him. And the best way she could imagine repaying his kindness was, because it was Pete, through food. So although her eyes were sticky and her head ached from crying the night before, Myka slipped out of bed, took a quick shower, and then plucked the car keys from the pocket of Pete’s pants, which were conveniently laid out across the back of a chair.

It was early still—only seven fifteen—which, Myka realized as she climbed into the car, meant Helena wouldn’t be at work yet. They were still in Boone, after all, and Helena was allowed to see her if Myka was the one who made first contact, so…even after the crying jag she’d been through last night while trying to accept the fact that Helena wanted to spend her life with someone who wasn’t her, Myka pulled out her cell phone and dialed the number Helena had used to call her.

“Myka?”

“Helena. Hi,” she breathed into the phone. “Are you—busy right now? Pete’s still sleeping, and I thought maybe—we could go get that coffee. I want to bring him something back, so even if you _are_ busy I thought, well, you’d know where I should go to get him some, some, donuts or pastries or something so—”

“I’d love to,” said Helena, and Myka stopped talking. “Only we just have the one car, and Nate needs it to take Adelaide to school—”

“I’ll come get you. As long as that’s—okay, I mean.”

“Yes. Yes, it’s fine.”

“All right. I’ll see you soon.”

“Soon, yes.”

Myka hung up, and then stared at her phone in something approaching horror. What had possessed her? Had she really just done that? What was she even going to say to Helena when she saw her?

And was it just her, or had Helena actually sounded _relieved_ to hear from her?

She pushed down those thoughts as best she could and focused on driving. When she pulled up in front of Helena’s house, though, all of her doubts and fears and worries came back, multiplying when Helena herself came through the front door, apparently dressed for work in a pair of slacks and a blue button down with one of those double-breasted vests she wore so well. Her hair was half done up, clipped back away from her face, and as she looked at Myka, she was all smiles.

Good lord. Myka thought she’d never made as big a mistake as this, _choosing_ to meet up with Helena after she gave the other woman her blessing to be happy with the most normal, _boring_ man Myka had ever met.

Not that she had much time to regret it, because Helena all but flounced down the front steps and into Myka’s car.

“Good morning, darling.”

“Yeah, uh, morning.”

“There’s a delightful bakery a few blocks from the police station,” supplied Helena, brushing a lock of hair from her face that had escaped her barrette. “That way you can get something for Pete and I can walk myself to work when you go.”

“Oh—okay,” replied Myka, frustrated with her apparent inability to process things and produce real words and responses, and more than anything, regretting having called Helena in the first place. She both did and desperately did _not_ want to know why Helena was so happy this morning, though she suspected that happiness was because she and Nate had made up. Then again, Helena had made a good point before—she couldn’t exactly tell him she was H.G. Wells, could she? Maybe she’d come up with some other story, something else that would explain…

Somehow, even as her thoughts chased themselves around her head, she followed Helena’s directions, and before long they were parked right in front of the bakery Helena had mentioned.

“Come along, darling,” said Helena, getting out of the car with another one of those brilliant, blinding smiles. “Haven’t got all day, have we?”

_I wish we did_ , thought Myka, moving slowly as she stepped out and locked the car behind them. _I wish we had today, and tomorrow, and every day after that_. But Helena had already gone inside, and when Myka followed her, she found Helena already at the counter, two paper cups of coffee in front of her, pointing at all of the pastries Pete would’ve chosen for himself (and there were a lot of them). Then she pulled a wallet from her purse.

“Please, you don’t have to do that,” protested Myka, but Helena merely arched a brow and slid a few bills across the counter to the girl at the register. In response, Myka shifted uncomfortably and clamped her mouth shut, watching helplessly as Helena carried the coffee cups over to the milk and sugar.

“Here,” she said, practically grinning as she pressed one of the cups into Myka’s hand and brushed past her to collect the box of pastries from the counter. “There’s a park just ‘round the corner. I thought perhaps we might go sit and have a chat there.”

Where had all of this come from? Last night Helena had seemed so far away, so untouchable, and now she was fixing Myka’s coffee and smiling like they had a secret. Why was she running so hot and cold?

Of course, Myka didn’t say any of this, partly because Helena didn’t give her any chance to. Even before Myka could get out a word of protest, Helena was outside, looking expectantly at her through the bakery window, eyebrows raised as if to ask if she was coming. As soon as Myka started moving towards the door, Helena took off down the sidewalk, and Myka had to scramble to catch up.

“What’s gotten into you?” asked Myka, when she was matching Helena stride for stride.

“Pardon?”

“You’re all…” Myka trailed off, unsure how to describe what she’d noticed in Helena that morning. “Smiley,” she finished pathetically.

“I can’t be glad to see you?”

“No, that’s not—of course you can be glad to see me. It’s just…last night, you were so…and now you’re just…”

“Darling, whatever you are trying to say, I do wish you’d spit it out.”

They hadn’t made it to the park yet, but Myka stopped on the sidewalk and Helena stopped with her. “Do you want to be with me or not?” blurted Myka, much louder than she had intended to. Two women just ahead of them on the sidewalk turned to stare, but Myka didn’t care. “Either way is—is fine, I guess, or it will be, but I need to—to know. What do you _want_? Is it me, or is it Nate and Adelaide? I know I don’t come with an Adelaide but I like to think that I—that I have some value on my own.” Because, after all, Myka had sure driven home the point that Helena wasn’t with Nate for Nate. That much, she knew, was most certainly true.

Helena’s smile had dissolved, and she was finally silent and subdued. She didn’t seem able to look Myka in the eye. “I don’t know, I’m afraid,” she said quietly. “I don’t know what I want. I don’t know if it’s you, or if it’s Nate and Adelaide, or if it’s—something else entirely.” She sighed, glanced back towards the two women who were staring, and looked back to Myka with pleading eyes. “Can we please not do this in the middle of the street?”

If she hadn’t had a full cup of steaming hot coffee in her hands, Myka would’ve crossed her arms. Instead, she stuffed her free hand deep in the pocket of her jacket and turned a glare on the staring women, who quickly stopped staring and finished their trek into the building that had obviously been their target in the first place. “The park or the car?” asked Myka finally.

“I think the park would be nicer, but I suppose we’d have a bit more…privacy,” Helena said, glancing towards where the staring women had been standing, “in your car.”

Myka turned on her heel and started back towards the car, her stomach churching. The last thing she wanted was to drink the coffee she was holding. She even considered calling Pete to wake him up, just so she’d have an excuse to leave Helena standing there on the sidewalk looking every bit as foolish as Myka herself felt. But she didn’t; she just unlocked the car and got in, grateful for the silence that followed when she shut the door behind her.

And then Helena got in as well, setting the box of pastries on the dash and her coffee in one of the cup holders. “I know you despise my apologies,” she said, staring down at her hands. “But I feel I owe you one anyhow.”

“You owe me a thousand apologies,” replied Myka, carefully putting her own coffee in the other cup holder. “For letting Kosan take you, for letting the Regents shut you out, for not…fighting any of it. For not breaking the rules while you were gone and contacting me anyway, just so I’d know you were okay. For—for helping Artie with the dagger and telling Mrs. Frederic about the astrolabe and—and not telling _me_ any of it. For Nate, and Adelaide, and the—the way you’ve treated me since Pete and I showed up yesterday morning, like I was so…beneath you, like my advice was nothing. You made me so… _angry_ , you know that? I only said that about Adelaide being Christina’s replacement because I was so mad at you.”

Myka’s mouth was dry, and she thought about drinking some of the coffee, but the idea was so far from appealing that they just sat unmoving and silent instead. Until at last, Helena brushed that errant lock of hair from her face again. “But you were right, you know. I wouldn’t be with Nate if it weren’t for Adelaide.” Myka considered responding to this, but she thought she’d do better to wait Helena out. “I didn’t, as you seem to believe, choose them over you, Myka,” she added quietly. “There was no real choice at all. Mrs. Frederic called to inform me everything with the astrolabe was over, and after that…it occurred to me that if I wished, I could have returned to South Dakota, brought myself closer to the Warehouse and to you, but…Nate and Adelaide, they wanted me in their lives, and I—no one had expressly _forbidden_ me from being with them, as they had with you. So perhaps it was selfish but I—I wanted more than miserable loneliness and whatever—scraps of happiness I could glean from you with the Regents breathing down my neck.”

She tried to consider what choice she would have made in Helena’s place, but she couldn’t imagine a world in which she wouldn’t choose Helena over any other option presented to her, no matter how appealing. Maybe it was just a difference in character, or maybe it was that Helena had experienced too much loss to want to put herself in a situation where she’d suffer micro-losses every time the Regents forced them apart again, but obviously Helena had made a different choice.

Breathing deeply, Myka closed her eyes. “But if,” she said, licking her lips, “if none of that had happened…if the Regents hadn’t cut you off from the Warehouse, from me…would you…would you still want me? Am I what you would choose? _Who_ you would choose?”

“Myka,” said Helena softly. “Look at me, please.” Myka felt cool fingers against her cheek, under her chin, and she looked. Helena’s eyes were fathomlessly dark, her face surprisingly close as she leaned towards Myka across the center console. “If the cards had been dealt another way, I would choose you a thousand times over, my darling. Do not doubt it for a second. I do hope, someday, that the Regents will allow me to return to you.” Helena’s starry eyes flicked down towards Myka’s lips, and for a moment, she thought she might get to experience the joy of Helena’s kiss again, but—no. Helena withdrew, her hand falling away from Myka’s face, and her expression closing, shutting away the woman she had grown to love. “But for now…”

“For now you’re with Nate and Adelaide,” Myka finished, releasing a breath she hadn’t even known she was holding. Helena merely nodded, and Myka closed her fingers around the steering wheel before her, hearing Helena’s voice in her memory telling her she would serve her penance. “I think…you should go now, Helena.”

“But—”

“No,” she sighed, shaking her head. “I can…I’ll learn to accept that, that you’re staying here with them instead of—of coming back with us. But I’m not okay with it right now. I…the one thing I want most in this world, right now, is you, and you…I just need you to go, okay?”

“Myka,” said Helena, and she sounded upset.

Tears threatened Myka again in return, and she stared ahead resolutely. “I’ll—I’ll call you,” she stammered, unconsciously echoing the promise she’d made only the day before in front of the Boone police station. “Sometime. Not—soon, I don’t think but—sometime.”

“All right,” said Helena quietly, opening the car door. Myka didn’t want to watch her go, but she couldn’t stop the way her eyes seemed always to track to Helena, couldn’t stop herself from seeing the tormented look on Helena’s face. She squeezed her eyes shut against the sight as Helena whispered a goodbye, and only when the door was closed and she had counted to a hundred did she dare to open them.

She was alone in the car, with no sign of Helena on the sidewalk and nothing ahead of her but Warehouse business; no hope of her own personal happiness, which had walked away from her at her request. But bizarrely, as Myka drove back to the motel where Pete was probably still sleeping, all she could think about was the fact that Helena had left her coffee in the car.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter; there's a brief epilogue to follow, but this should wrap up the conflicts pretty nicely.
> 
> Thanks again to my lovely wife for being my beta!

The night after Myka left was one of the more miserable nights Helena had ever spent in her life, and that was truly saying something given the sheer number of years she’d lived. Nate had been nothing but cold to her, had looked at her like she was a stranger he didn’t know and didn’t trust. Perhaps worst of all, when he came into their bedroom that evening, it was only to grab a pair of pajamas before he turned on his heel and made for the guest room without so much as a goodbye.

As a result, Helena found sleep suddenly quite elusive. She had grown used to Nate’s warm presence beside her, and without it, their bed felt empty and cold. So instead she lay awake, staring into the darkness, and her mind began to churn.

The primary conclusion she came to was that Myka had been right in everything she’d said: that Helena was using Adelaide as a substitute for Christina, that she was denying her true self, and ultimately, that this life wasn’t who she was. She wasn’t like everyone else. She didn’t _belong_ working as a forensic scientist for a police department in Wisconsin, or as the girlfriend of a normal man and a surrogate mother to his child. She’d tried to make herself fit neatly into Nate and Adelaide’s life, but Myka was right. It wasn’t her. If she truly wanted to belong as part of their family, she would have to sacrifice parts of herself that she cherished, and Helena wasn’t sure she was ready to do so.

But despite that knowledge, she didn’t actively _want_ to leave them. She had turned Myka away, and if she left Nate and Adelaide too, then what was the point in staying in Boone? Though she was on unsteady ground with Nate now, Helena was certain she could rescue their relationship and make their life comfortable again. Because that was truly all she wanted for her exile: to be comfortable.

Of course, what she wanted _more_ than that was to return to the Warehouse, and to Myka; Helena did believe, firmly, that one day the Regents would reverse their decision and allow her to return. Certainly Myka had offered to speak to the Regents to attempt to hasten that process, but Helena’s pride wouldn’t allow it. She wanted to serve her penance, and to be allowed back on her own merits, not because of her circumstances or her connection to Myka. Not that she would refuse, of course, if they discovered she and Myka were soulmates and changed her sentence because of it, but the Regents had treated her far too poorly for Helena to consider begging them for anything.

What she wanted and what she was certain she could have were, unfortunately, two very different things.

But even after a night of too much thought and too little sleep, when Myka called her the next morning, Helena was only too eager to answer. Nate, after all, was continuing his silent treatment, so it seemed to her benefit in many ways to get out of the house. Plus, it was _Myka_ making the invitation, so how was Helena to say no? Especially since she had treated Myka with nothing but reticence and anger and resentment the day before, so she had a great deal to make up for. Assuming, of course, that Myka’s phone call truly meant she was interested in keeping in touch with her.

Regardless of Myka’s motivations, Helena’s heart raced—in a good way—when she heard a car in the driveway. Though Nate had barely spoken to her so far that morning, Helena called out a goodbye, slung her bag over her shoulder, and stepped out onto the front steps, beaming at the thought of seeing Myka again. Her grin dimmed slightly when she caught sight of Myka’s face, drawn and pale, her mouth a grim line, but no matter how Myka looked, she was _there_ , and that made all the difference.

When they arrived at the bakery, she was taken with a whim that struck her as equal parts silly and romantic, and which she nearly dismissed out of hand; but then she thought that perhaps a silly, romantic gesture might help to banish the shadows of doubts and fears she saw lurking in the corners of Myka’s eyes.

Before she could second guess herself and write the notion off as excessively foolish, Helena hurried into the bakery and placed her order, and when she had the two cups of coffee in hand, turned to the milk and sugar, and using the preparation of their drinks as cover, quickly pulled a pen from her purse and scrawled a message across one cup.

It was just her luck that she then gave Myka the wrong one, because surely if Myka had gotten the message— _I love you_ written in the same cursive that graced Myka’s wrist, three words Helena regretted never having said to Myka before—then they wouldn’t have started to cause a scene on the sidewalk outside, with Myka asking her what she wanted.

Helena knew very well what the answer to that question was, of course, but when she opened her mouth to say it, the words got caught in her throat and instead, she wound up saying “I don’t know,” which was as much a lie as saying her name was Emily Lake. But by the time they were seated in the relative privacy of Myka’s car, Helena found herself thinking it was unwise to tell Myka what she truly _did_ want, because her desires and her intentions were very much at odds, and Helena didn’t want to give Myka any wrong ideas.

It also meant, however, that those shadows she’d seen in Myka’s eyes came back, and then all too soon, Myka was asking her to go. Helena spared a glance for her abandoned coffee, the one bearing her message of love, and realized with regret that this was not the time to bring it up. Any chance she’d had of professing her true feelings for Myka had fled along with the truth of what she wanted. So Helena sighed, said a quiet goodbye, and left as Myka had asked of her.

She wished, though, that she could’ve been there when Myka finally saw the note she had left for her. Some part of her considered it entirely possible she might never discover it, as ever-practical Myka might pass the cup straight on to oblivious Pete, who would doubtless not notice the writing, since it took up less space on the cup than half of one of his fingers.

(It would take her much less time than she expected to find out what became of it.)

Once she had left Myka’s rental car behind, the only logical thing to do was to go on to the police station and her lab, to bury herself in work so she hadn’t the time to ruminate on their conversation. But when she had finished work and Nate came to pick her up, the reality of her situation came crashing back down on her in the form of Nate’s stony silence on the drive. Even Adelaide, in the back seat, was unusually quiet. It was like that all evening, Nate avoiding her, Adelaide subdued, and when the time came to turn in, Nate once again pointedly walked past her to the guest bedroom.

It was like that for the next four days, even through the weekend, with Nate hardly speaking to her more than was strictly necessary—he scarcely said two words to her that weren’t something like “pass the salt” or “have you seen my keys” or “we’ll see you after work.” Adelaide, on the other hand, gradually returned to her usual loquacious self, filling in Nate’s silence with facts and stories from her day. This, in turn, seemed to animate Nate, and Helena began to think it was only a matter of time before he allowed her to explain herself to him, and before their lives returned to the comfortable normalcy they had established before the Warehouse disrupted it.

But then, on what would otherwise have been a perfectly ordinary Tuesday morning, Helena logged into her computer in the lab, signed into her email, and discovered a message in her inbox from “ _sender undisclosed_.” Helena considered for a moment whether it was wise to open such a thing, but her curiosity soon won out, and she opened it.

_See attached. The Regents are meeting today to discuss._

_Please recall that you have my full support._

_\--Irene Frederic_

Knowing now who had sent the message, Helena didn’t hesitate to download the video file attached, though she had to watch it twice through before she fully understood what she was watching.

It was, unmistakably, footage taken from the security cameras in Artie’s office, with Artie seated at the desk and Myka standing on its other side, holding some papers. She set them down in front of him in two piles, and Artie looked up at her, confused. Myka merely stared as he examined the pages, folding her arms across her chest, and lifted her chin with a satisfied smile when Artie looked up again, his expression this time showing surprise and understanding.

“ _H.G.?_ ” he asked, eyes wide behind his glasses. (It was at this point during her second viewing that Helena had made use of the police department’s video software to zoom in on the papers. Upon closer examination they seemed to be, in one pile, a typed letter with what she recognized as Myka’s signature at the bottom, and in the other, some kind of official form—576-S, it said in the top right corner.)

“ _Helena is my soulmate_ ,” said Myka. “ _I don’t know if you’re the right person to give those forms to, but I don’t care. I’m tired of hiding it. I love her, Artie. I’m in love with H.G. Wells._ ” She laughed then, but it wasn’t a particularly pleasant sound. “ _I won’t pretend any more that I’m not. And you and the Regents and anyone else who helped send her away can go to hell for all I care._ ”

“ _Myka, I didn’t—_ ”

“ _I don’t care!_ ” she cried, throwing her hands in the air. “ _Helena isn’t here. The Regents sent her away because of what she did before. But she belongs here, Artie. More than me, more than you, more than all of us combined. And if you don’t take those forms to the Regents and talk to them about this—about us, about getting her back from goddamn Boone, Wisconsin—_ ” (Myka said that with the utmost distaste) “ _—then you can take my resignation instead. For real this time. Because I can’t be here without her anymore._ ”

The recording cut out there, but it was enough. Coupled with the message from Mrs. Frederic, it was _more_ than enough. Because if the Regents were meeting, then obviously this stunt Myka had pulled had gotten results.

But what, exactly, had gotten her to do such a thing? She had obviously been less than pleased with Helena when she left those few days ago. And with good reason, honestly, since Helena had told her she’d prefer to stay in Boone than travel back to the Warehouse with Myka. Which was utterly idiotic of course, because it was most certainly not the truth, but Helena couldn’t really take it back, now could she?

If she had known Myka’s righteous indignation, plus the revelation of their being soulmates, would have _absolutely_ resulted in a gathering of the Regents, Helena might have acted differently, might have bowed to Myka’s desire to talk to the Regents. But Myka had been so upset with her, and Helena had spent so many months in exile that she had had difficulty allowing hope to take root within her. Truly, presented with that moment again, and with the same information she had had at the time, Helena believed she would’ve made the same choice over again.

But now the information had changed, and the hope she had been denying herself began to slip through the cracks in her armor that Myka had made during her brief visit. The Regents were meeting, and only because Myka had presented them with a piece of information they had been missing. The fact that the meeting was occurring at all was a good enough indicator for Helena to believe that her situation might change. At the very least, it seemed possible—perhaps even probable—that the Regents would allow her free communication with Myka. After all, to forcibly separate a soulmate match was nearly unconscionable. Surely the Regents would have some doubts about their actions now that this had come to light. Surely they would relax the terms of her banishment.

Wouldn’t they?

Helena grabbed for her purse and pulled out her Warehouse cell phone, rushing through a text to Mrs. Frederic: _Should I be present at this meeting? Should Myka? Or are we to have no say?_

She considered calling as well, just to eliminate the wait for a response, but it was always possible the meeting was already underway and that Helena’s call would be interrupting. Doubtless the Regents would not be pleased with that. So she kept quiet, and attempted to do some work, but found she was hopelessly distracted. When her phone finally vibrated on the desk, she actually started so badly she dropped the pile of paperwork she was holding. (She was just grateful it hadn’t been glassware.)

_Agent Bering’s resignation letter should be all the testimony the Regents need. I believe the outlook is good._

For a moment she couldn’t believe it. But then she recalled that Mrs. Frederic, a formidable force in her own right, was on their side, and somehow it seemed quite a bit more believable. There was only one thing for it then; she would be returning to South Dakota, whether it was to work at the Warehouse again or simply to be near Myka. Either way, to her, it didn’t matter.

Helena glanced down at the paperwork scattered across the floor, and considered just leaving it there, rushing out of the police station, catching a cab back to Nate’s house, and gathering her few things. But she had spent the past several months showing Adelaide the importance of respecting others—their time, their efforts, their rules—so she heaved a sigh and bent to gather the papers together instead, and only when that was done did she scoop her phone into her purse, log out of the lab computer, and head down the hall to the administrative offices to see what could be done about quitting her job.

This, she thought, was why she had liked not _having_ a job in the first place.

Although her position turned out to be quite easy to terminate, there seemed to be a great deal of paperwork to fill out to see it done. It was tedious, and time-consuming, and she had a devil of a time recalling the address of the safe house in Rapid City where she suggested they send her final paycheck, but eventually, she was free of her only legally-binding reason to stay in Boone.

With her credentials revoked, and with no further word from Mrs. Frederic about her status, Helena felt unbalanced and adrift, unsure of what her future held. Nate, she thought sadly, might be glad to see her go after everything that had happened, but Adelaide…she did regret having to leave Adelaide.

Provided, of course, that the meeting with the Regents went as Mrs. Frederic suggested it would, of which Helena had no guarantee.

Instead of waiting anxiously by the phone, she decided to pass the time by sitting in the park around the corner from the station, where she had intended to tell Myka she loved her, and eating the lunch she had packed for herself that morning. It was there that her phone, at last, began to ring.

The sandwich she was halfway through almost fell to the ground as she scrambled to answer the call before it went through to voicemail, but she managed a last-minute rescue, setting the sandwich down and answering the phone. “Hello?” she asked breathlessly.

“Miss Wells,” said Mrs. Frederic. “I have good news.”

Helena went nearly boneless with relief. “Oh thank god.”

“Given the multitude of information that has arisen since the last time your case was before the Regents, your punishment is to be lifted.”

Staring blindly into the middle distance, Helena didn’t even notice when she shifted her weight and accidentally squashed the remnants of her sandwich. “What does that mean? In practice?”

“If you would like to return to work for the Warehouse, you may. If you would like to remain a civilian, you may. You are free to go, Miss Wells, and free to do what you like.”

“The Warehouse,” replied Helena without hesitation. “Myka was right. It’s the one place I truly belong.”

“Then I will set the wheels in motion…Agent Wells.”

The line went silent, but hearing the title affixed to her name was as much a relief as hearing the news was good. Helena sighed and closed her eyes, allowing the information to seep through her, to come to terms with the fact that she was going back to the Warehouse. Home. To Myka.

But of course, she needed to find a way to _get_ there, didn’t she? She could go rent a car and start driving, but Helena had had more than enough of long drives while she was in hiding with the astrolabe. A flight, then.

But not until she told Nate and Adelaide she was leaving. They had treated her with kindness, had welcomed her into their home, and for that, she owed them at least an explanation.

She packed up the remnants of her lunch—most of her lunch, in fact, but Helena found the mix of excitement and anxiety that was now roiling within her had quite killed her appetite—and disposed of it, then sent Nate a text telling him she would meet him and Adelaide at home. Then it was only a matter of grabbing a cab back to the house, buying a plane ticket, and packing up her things, which took less time than she expected. Then again, she actually had very little in the way of possessions, so she supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, it had only taken her a total of two hours to move from her apartment into Nate’s house, and that was mostly because of the modest book collection she’d managed to acquire.

None of them seemed important enough to keep now, she thought as she moved them into boxes. None, of course, except the Harry Potter book with its hidden postcard, which bypassed the boxes and went straight into her purse.

When she was finished, it was nearly time for Nate and Adelaide to arrive home, so she made a cup of tea and seated herself in the living room to wait, knowing full well that what she planned to say to them would be made clear well before she said it simply by the fact that her one large suitcase was waiting by the front door.

To her good fortune, her tea hadn’t even had time to go cold before the front door opened, and Adelaide tromped into the house, heading straight for the kitchen and an after-school snack, as was her custom.

“Hello, Adelaide,” she said, with as kind a smile as she could muster through her desire for this to be over so she could _get to Myka already_.

“Hi Emily. I mean, Helena,” said Adelaide, with much less enthusiasm than usual. “Or is it bye? Because I know you’re leaving.” Rather than continuing into the kitchen from the living room, Adelaide stopped at the end of the sofa and crossed her arms over her small chest, making it obvious she had seen the suitcase and deduced, correctly, its meaning.

“Both, darling,” said Helena, setting her mug down on the coffee table. “But I wanted to talk to you and your father first. Is he coming?”

There was no trust in Adelaide’s face now, even though the poor dear had been the only bit of light in Helena’s days since Myka left. Where Nate had been sullen and silent with her, Adelaide had merely been less garrulous than usual—which meant that she had still said more to Helena in an evening than most of her (now former) co-workers said to her in a day. Clearly, although she had been on her way to accepting that Helena had lied to them, the sight of the suitcase had made her as distrustful as Nate.

“Yeah,” she said eventually. “He’s getting stuff out of the car.”

Sure enough, Helena heard the door open again, shortly followed by Nate’s distinctive heavy tread, following Adelaide’s path to the living room and, from the grocery bags in his arms, to the kitchen.

Helena couldn’t help herself. Perhaps out of habit, she got up off the couch and went into the kitchen to help him put the groceries away. But as she did so, she realized that even though he’d hardly spoken to her, he’d still bought her some of the expensive apple pears she had developed a taste for, and a new jar of marmalade to replace the one she’d recently finished (despite the fact that he and Adelaide both protested that marmalade was disgusting).

For the first time since she’d opened Mrs. Frederic’s email that morning, she realized what she was doing to them, the routines she would disrupt by leaving, and she felt guilty.

“I’m sorry,” she said suddenly, and much too loudly for the relative quiet of the kitchen. She was still holding the marmalade in one hand. “For all the pain I’ve caused you, and will cause you, I—I’m dreadfully sorry. You have both been nothing short of wonderfully warm and welcoming to me, and I am—I’ve repaid you with nothing but heartache.”

Adelaide, bless her, looked up from the cup of yogurt she’d pilfered from the groceries on the counter, and helpfully supplied, “And kenpo. And deduction. And you got me out of that place with those men, too. Even if your name’s not Emily, I still think you’re pretty great.”

“Pretty great?” repeated Helena with a laugh she realized was quite watery. “That was the best you could manage?”

Adelaide smiled, showing her braces. “Short notice,” she returned.

“Cheeky,” replied Helena, and Adelaide’s smile widened, while Helena’s own turned sad. She set down the marmalade and walked around the island to press a kiss to the top of the girl’s head, murmuring, “I’ll miss you, my darling.”

Behind her, Nate didn’t pause in putting away the groceries. He also didn’t look at her.

“Nate? Can we talk, please?”

“I’m not so sure I want to open that door.”

“I know. And I deserve every bit of your resentment. But I wanted—I believe you deserve an explanation. Both of you.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Emily. Dammit—Helena. See? This is why I don’t _want_ to talk! Because how do I know what you’re saying isn’t just another lie?”

Helena let her hand fall away from Adelaide’s shoulder, where it had been resting. “I never lied to you,” she said, and when Nate let out a sputtering, disbelieving laugh, she raised her voice. “Not about anything that _mattered_. Yes, I gave you a false name, but only because I _had_ to.”

“Why?” Nate all but shouted, waving his hands wildly in the air. Adelaide, beside her, was as still as a statue. “Was it witness protection or something? I saw what you did to that cop. You took him down like you do that every day ten times before breakfast!”

“You’re scaring Adelaide,” she said firmly, and Adelaide did, indeed, look afraid. She had started to lean infinitesimally towards Helena, as if she were the safer option of the two even if she _could_ kill a man with her bare hands.

Nate took a deep breath and leaned back against the kitchen sink. “Sorry, Adelaide.”

“It’s okay, dad,” she murmured, although she didn’t look like she meant it.

Helena rested her hand against Adelaide’s back and made small, soothing circles, the way she had always done for Christina when she was ill or afraid. The gesture came to her quite without thought, and when she realized what she was doing, she almost stopped; but Adelaide had relaxed a bit under her touch, so she didn’t. “I can’t tell you everything, unfortunately,” said Helena, keeping her tone as even as possible. “But witness protection is about as close an approximation as I can think of to explain.”

“And those Secret Service agents? Were they your—your handlers or something?”

“No. Believe it or not, they are my former colleagues.” Here, Helena felt, was the perfect way to introduce the subject she had wanted to discuss. “They’ve asked me to come back to work with them again.”

Nate fixed her with another one of those looks that suggested he had no idea who she was or how to read her. She could see in the angle of his brows and the slight glint of fear in his eyes that he was recalling how easy it was for her to disable Briggs. “Well, you’re obviously good at—whatever it is that they do. I’m still not a hundred percent clear on that.”

“Probably for the best that you aren’t, darling,” supplied Helena, removing her hand from Adelaide’s back now that she seemed to have settled down.

“And so you’re going, and you’re leaving us, me and dad,” said Adelaide quietly.

“I am sorry that I have to go, but I think,” she glanced at Nate, whose expression now hung somewhere between confusion and sadness, “that it’s probably for the best. I have upended your lives long enough, and though I’m very grateful that you invited me into your home and your family, I don’t believe I’m meant to be a part of it. My path, it seems, lies elsewhere.”

“Will we get to see you again sometime?” asked Adelaide, her expression of hopeful concern one Helena thought was well beyond her years. Especially when she turned it on her father a moment later. “Would that be okay, dad? If Helena visited us sometimes?”

Nate, Helena was well aware, was hard-pressed to refuse almost anything his daughter asked of him, provided it wasn’t something completely outlandish. So he cleared his throat, and he nodded. It was a small, jerky motion, but it was most definitely a nod.

“Since your father says it’s all right,” said Helena, who as a single mother had long ago learned the importance of bowing to the permission of that one parent, “I shall endeavor to come see you both as often as I can find the time.” Knowing the Warehouse, that would not be often at all, but Helena didn’t think it fair to press so much bad news on a child all at once.

A quick glance at the clock on the stove made her eyebrows lift in surprise. “Oh bollocks,” she muttered, and Adelaide gave her one of the dirty looks Helena knew she saved for surprise cursing. “I must be off. My flight leaves in an hour and a half.”

Nate straightened up, glancing at the clock himself. “We can take you,” he said, stepping away from the sink. “Right Adelaide? You don’t mind missing kenpo this once, do you?”

“No,” she said, grabbing up her abandoned yogurt and finishing it in a few quick, heaping bites. With the energy only given to children and those who’ve consumed too much caffeine, she then slipped off her stool, disposed of her yogurt and spoon, and grabbed Nate’s hand. “C’mon dad, let’s go. We don’t want Helena to miss her flight.”

Just like that, in the face of Adelaide’s cheerful support, all the turmoil, all the anger and resentment Nate had been directing at her since Adelaide was abducted seemed to dissolve. He nodded, and then he was loading Helena’s suitcase into the car and they were off down the road.

“Where are you going, anyway?” asked Nate as they turned off the highway towards Boone’s small domestic airport.

“South Dakota,” replied Helena, and when Nate made a face, she laughed, freely and openly. It felt delightful. “I know. I feel that way about South Dakota myself, but it’s where the job is based.”

“I’d ask for more details, but I don’t think I want to know,” said Nate.

“They probably get even more snow than we do here,” piped Adelaide from the back seat. “Did you know that the coldest places in the US usually have high elevations?” It was exactly the kind of random fact Adelaide excelled at supplying, and it provided good, neutral conversation until Nate pulled up in front of Helena’s airline and they all climbed out of the car.

“Thank you,” said Helena as Nate took her bag from the trunk. “I am ever so grateful for…everything.”

“Don’t forget to come visit,” said Adelaide, and suddenly she was plastered against Helena’s side, almost clinging to her.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” replied Helena, hugging her back. When Adelaide let go, she was surprised by Nate asking her to get back in the car and give them a minute.

“Thanks,” he said, though he looked like it cost him to say it. “You really—aside from everything else, you really helped Adelaide. She was having a really rough time before…you. So, uh. Thanks.”

Helena felt her expression soften. “It was a pleasure, truly. You’re very lucky to have such a lovely child.” Nate looked towards where Adelaide was sitting in the car and nodded. “Take care, Nate. Of yourself, as well as her.”

“I will,” he replied, and Helena waved to them both and headed inside the airport. It still felt unreal that she was going back to the Warehouse, that she was being allowed free control over her own life after having been under the Regents’ thumb for so long. Two years, she thought to herself. She had been imprisoned by them in one way or another for two whole years. That was nothing, of course, compared to the scores of years she had been bronzed, but that brief time in between the two, with Myka and the rest of the team…that was what she lived for, and what she was most looking forward to having once again.

When at last the car that had been waiting for her outside the South Dakota airport pulled up to the bed and breakfast, Helena felt her nerves jangling. The driveway was crowded with cars, which meant it was likely the whole team was inside. She supposed she ought to have been excited, but the prospect of having all those people greet her at once was, frankly, overwhelming after months spent with only Nate and Adelaide.

Still, _Myka_ was inside, and seeing her was the only thing that mattered.

She rolled her suitcase behind her up to the front stoop and let herself in the front door, half expecting Claudia to tackle her immediately. But no one was on the stairs, or in the hall; instead, she heard voices in the living room and the murmur of the television. With a smile, Helena placed her suitcase at the foot of the stairs, set her purse down atop it, and turned to present herself in the living room.

No sooner had she stepped through the doorway than she heard the voices stop, and the scraping of a chair as Myka stood, quite suddenly, from where she’d been sitting. “Helena?”

“Hello, Myka.”

A veritable chorus of “H.G.!”s rose then, from Pete and Claudia and even Steve if she wasn’t mistaken. Before she knew it, she was mobbed with Warehouse agents hugging her, Claudia first among them with Myka close behind. Through the throng she could see a woman she didn’t recognize still seated in one of the armchairs, and Artie standing beside her, looking much less displeased with her presence than she expected. And through the strange mixture of laughs and words she couldn’t make out, she heard Myka, quite clearly, speak into her ear: “I can’t believe you’re actually _here_.”

Helena somehow found Myka’s hand in the tangle of limbs, and held onto it even as she squirmed her way out of the group hug. “Your ultimatum, it seems, had its desired result,” said Helena, smiling at Myka and squeezing her hand, simply because she could. “The Regents set me free, and so…here I am. With you.” She turned her gaze on the rest of them, Claudia with her beaming smile, Pete right behind her, Steve close behind them, even Artie and the stranger in the chair. “With all of you.”

“What ultimatum?” asked Claudia, glancing from Helena to Artie. “Myka dropped an ultimatum? How did I not hear about this?” She looked pointedly at Pete then, and he looked defensive.

“Myka made me swear not to tell!”

“Dude, what’d you threaten the Regents with that they let H.G. back?” Her eyes lit up suddenly, and she pointed with both index fingers at Myka. “I didn’t think you had blackmail in you, Mykes. What dirt did you dig up on the _Regents_?”

“It was nothing of the kind,” boomed Artie. “Myka and H.G. are _soulmates_.” He said the word “soulmates” with some distaste, and gave her and Myka one of his patented grumpy stares. “Why nobody,” it was very clear this meant _Myka_ , “bothered to tell me this earlier is anyone’s guess. But Warehouse code demands notifying the Regents when an agent finds his or her match, so…”

“But that’s not in the manual,” protested Myka. “I _checked_.”

“Of course it’s not in the manual! It’s Secret Service protocol! File the forms with your supervisor, and they take it to the board that makes the decisions. In this case, the Regents. And am I not your supervisor?!”

“Well of course you are, but Artie, when I figured it out you never would’ve been okay with it!”

Privately, Helena thought, perhaps things would have gone differently if Myka _had_ told him, as her plan to find Warehouse 2 would likely have been foiled. But it was no use thinking about might-have-beens, was it?

“Regardless,” said Helena, loudly, “I have returned, and unless I am mistaken, I have been reinstated as an agent of the Warehouse as well.”

Artie grumbled something that was unintelligible except for “Mrs. Frederic.”

Myka, predictably, turned disbelieving eyes on him. “You _knew_? You knew she was coming back and you didn’t _tell me_?”

“Mrs. Frederic instructed me not to,” he growled, gripping the back of a nearby chair.

Meanwhile, the woman in the armchair looked on with apparent confusion. Helena took it upon herself to ease the tension in the room by letting go of Myka and approaching the stranger instead, hand extended. “I’m sorry, terribly rude of me. I don’t think we’ve met. H.G. Wells, at your service.”

“ _You’re_ H.G. Wells?” asked the woman.

“In the flesh,” said Helena with a smirk. It was only too pleasant to be able to startle someone like this and know they knew she wasn’t lying about her identity. God, she’d missed that while she was away. “And you are…?”

“Oh I’m so sorry!” she took Helena’s still-extended hand and shook it. “Abigail Cho. I’m the new owner of the B&B. It’s a—pleasure to meet you, H.G.”

Helena considered, briefly, asking her to use her Christian name instead of her nickname, but it was charming to be reminded of her legacy, so she merely smiled and let go of Abigail’s hand, stepping back towards Myka, who met her halfway and immediately laced their fingers together again, like she was afraid to let Helena go for too long.

Helena didn’t mind that one bit.

“I expect,” said Artie, with almost exaggerated levels of his habitual irritability, “that now that H.G.’s been reinstated you’ll be wanting your two weeks’ bonding time.”

“That’d be a nice start,” said Myka, with a sideways look at Helena, the heat of which sent a thrill down her spine. _Bonding time indeed_ , thought Helena.

Artie’s lips pursed into something that on another man might’ve been labeled a pout, but which on him was just another expression of unhappiness. “Barely back on the job two minutes and already asking for vacation,” he sighed. “What is this Warehouse coming to?”

“Wait,” said Claudia. “You get two weeks’ vacation when you find your soulmate?”

Apparently aggrieved, Artie reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, Claudia! Does nobody here ever _read the paperwork_?”

“There’s just so _much_ of it,” whined Pete, only to shrink a little when Artie turned the glare on him instead.

Claudia, though, just grinned. “Well, Steve and I are soulmates,” she said, and at the confused and surprised stares she got, she hastened to add, “Platonic! Totally platonic soulmates. But that means we get two weeks’ vacation too, right?”

“No!” growled Artie. He flapped a hand at Myka and Helena. “ _They_ have filed their paperwork! And you—” he jabbed his finger at Claudia and glared, “have not!” And then, radiating displeasure, he straightened his coat. “I’m done with this foolishness for tonight,” he declared. “And Claudia, for that little stunt I want to see you bright and early at the Warehouse tomorrow for inventory.” With that, he stomped out of the B &B, leaving the rest of them in semi-stunned silence.

Once the door to the B&B had closed behind him, Myka looked at Claudia. “Are you guys really soulmates?” she asked. Helena was pleased to note that Myka hadn’t let go of her hand.

“Dude, so not a lie,” said Claudia, turning around and sweeping her hair away from her neck. At the nape, just at the edge of her hairline, Helena could make out two lines of words: _Slow turn and hands, please._

“Mine says ‘ _Listen, we work for the museum_ ,’” supplied Steve. “Can’t tell you how confusing that was growing up, especially since every time I looked at it I knew it was a lie.”

Claudia grinned. “You know what’s even better?” she asked, glancing at Steve, who sent her a warning look. “It’s a—” Steve reached over and tried to cover her mouth with his hands, but Claudia, laughing, shouted, “—tramp stamp!”

Of course, that got Pete to start teasing, but Myka, next to her, cut in. “You know,” she said, a distinct twinkle in her eye, “in my admittedly limited experience, if you file the paperwork, then Artie has to give you the two weeks off.”

This earned a delighted laugh from Helena herself, and a cry of what Helena could only describe as “elated triumph” from Claudia, who immediately turned to Steve and started to suggest vacation destinations, at least until Myka leaned towards the two of them.

“Best not to do it right away though,” she said with a smile. “Since, y’know, if all four of us are on vacation that’ll leave Artie with only Pete at the Warehouse.”

“Oh god,” said Claudia, looking wide-eyed at Pete. “That’s almost a fate worse than death.”

“Hey!” cried Pete, and shortly he and Claudia were chasing each other about the room while everyone else watched.

Helena took advantage of the distraction to lean up and whisper into Myka’s ear. “Think we can slip away?” Myka glanced at Pete and Claudia, and at Steve and Abigail, who were both laughing at their antics, and nodded, pulling Helena along behind her by their joined hands.

Almost too soon, they were in Myka’s room, Helena leaning back against the closed door, Myka’s hands framing her face, her thumbs caressing Helena’s cheeks.

“I can’t believe you’re actually here,” she said again. Her lips were smiling, but there was a hint of sadness in her eyes that Helena wanted to chase away.

“When I said I didn’t know what I want, it was a lie,” replied Helena, tilting her head to one side, pressing into one of Myka’s hands. “This is where I’ve always wanted to be, darling. With you.”

“I know,” said Myka quietly, hands withdrawing, falling away from Helena’s face. “I know you, Helena. Better than anyone else. So I knew it was a lie. Just like I knew you were telling the truth when you said you would choose me in a heartbeat if I were really an option that was on the table.” She took a step back, then two steps, then three, and then turned to face away from Helena, who curled her fingers against the wood of the door just to ground herself in its solidity. “And I knew you were too proud to ask for my help, so I took matters into my own hands.”

It pained her to admit it, but Myka was right. “Thank you for that, by the way. I certainly didn’t deserve such kindness after the way I treated you.”

Myka snorted. “No kidding. I was so _mad_ at you, you know that? Knowing you wanted to be with me, but choosing to stay with them instead.”

“It was foolish,” Helena agreed, pressing her hands harder against the door, until she could feel her fingernails biting into the paint. “I’ve spent a great deal of time since thinking about what I said, the choices I made. I’m—still not certain I wouldn’t make the same ones again, with the same knowledge I had at the time, but—”

“See?” Myka cut in. “I know that too. And I know you’re sorry. I’m sorry too. It’s what got us into this mess in the first place.”

“I thought…I thought perhaps you’d be happy to see me. You _were_ happy to see me,” returned Helena, wrapping her arms around herself. “When I came through that door, you were happy I’d come.”

“Of course I was happy you came!” cried Myka, throwing her hands up. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t make me crazy!” She reached up, rubbing her forehead, and shook her head. “God, this is just like my parents. Every time we see each other we fight.”

Helena recalled the stories Myka had told about her parents, recalled the way Myka had reacted so fiercely the first time the matter of soulmates had come up between them because of her parents being a match—“a terrible match,” if Helena recalled correctly. It had certainly sounded as if their relationship was far from being a healthy one. Objectively, given their history, Helena supposed the same could be said of the two of them as well, but Helena had learned through experience that no one made her as happy as Myka could.

It also seemed to be true, however, that no one could make Myka as miserable as Helena herself.

“What a bloody _mess_ we are,” she sighed.

“Yeah,” snorted Myka. “You could say that again.”

At the heart of it, though, there was one thing which Helena knew to be true above all others: they loved one another, and wanted to be together. And if that was true, surely they could find some way to make it happen.

“Tell me,” said Helena quietly, dropping her arms from her chest and taking a step towards Myka. “What made you deliver that ultimatum to Artie? To threaten to quit if he didn’t talk to the Regents about reinstating me?”

“You know all of that?” asked Myka.

“Mrs. Frederic,” supplied Helena, and Myka glanced away with a look on her face that Helena read as _of course_. She said nothing else, but crossed the room towards her dresser, picked something up, and turned back to face Helena, revealing the item in question was the paper coffee cup with its hasty love note. “Ah,” she said, feeling heat rush to her face. “That.”

Myka gave her a small, wry smile, moving to sit on the end of her own bed. “It—changed things,” she said, turning the cup in her hands. “You had…you’d never said it to me before. Not even that night Kosan came to take you away, when I said it to you…you didn’t say it back. So to see this…” She shrugged. “It meant something. Meant…a lot more than you saying you wanted to stay in Boone. That was a lie, anyway. But this,” she glanced down at the cup, and then back up at Helena. “This was true. I knew it was true.”

“So you risked your job for me.”

“It was Pete’s idea, actually,” she said, as if Helena hadn’t said anything at all. “He told me to go to Artie, to tell him about us, to demand he talk to the Regents. He said he had a good vibe about it. Said he was pretty sure it would bring you home.”

“Well,” replied Helena, moving quietly towards the bed, “I suppose I’d better thank him, then.”

“Helena, what are we going to do?” asked Myka, looking up with eyes that shone. “I mean, we got what we wanted, but…I’m still so…so _mad_ at you.”

“You have every right to be, I’m afraid.” She halted in front of Myka and reached down, plucking the cup from her hands, lifting it to examine more closely. Myka, doubtless, would’ve recognized her handwriting right away, the way one of the o’s didn’t quite close in a circle, the dramatic loop beneath the y. She supposed her handwriting was quite distinctive. Then again, she was H.G. Wells. _Distinctive_ was rather something she’d always prided herself on. She turned, set the cup down on Myka’s dresser again, and came back around to face Myka, standing as straight and tall as she could. “I suppose I shall have to make it up to you somehow.”

“There’s a lot to make up for,” warned Myka.

“Of that, darling, I am _painfully_ aware,” replied Helena dryly, stepping closer. “But are you willing to let me try? Or is our relationship…irreparable?” It hurt to say it, and the half-strangled way she’d said the word _irreparable_ made that obvious. But Myka looked up at her calmly, coolly, without anger or resentment, and that in itself was enough to reawaken the kernel of hope that had been slowly blooming since Helena opened Mrs. Frederic’s email…when? Good lord, had it only been that morning? It seemed impossibly far away.

“I wouldn’t say irreparable,” said Myka, rubbing her palms gently over the denim covering her thighs. “It won’t be easy, I wouldn’t think, but…”

“Not beyond repair, then.”

“No. I love you too much to have you here and not find some way to be with you that doesn’t hurt us both.”

Helena sighed, in relief this time, and inched closer again, so close now that Myka’s knees were only inches from her own, Myka’s face within easy reach of a slight stoop. “Tell me then. Can you think of some way I might begin to make amends?”

“Say it,” said Myka, sparing a significant glance towards the cup on the dresser behind Helena to make it clear what she meant. “Say the words.”

“I love you,” Helena replied obediently.

“Say it again.”

“I love you.”

“Again.”

“I love you, Myka.”

“Good,” said Myka, reaching out to fist her hands in Helena’s shirt and draw her down. “Now shut up and kiss me,” she finished, and Helena went willingly, though she had to grasp Myka’s shoulders to brace herself against the force of her pull, their lips crashing together. It was inelegant, awkward, even, but Helena didn’t care. It was possibly the greatest moment of her life.

“Oh thank god,” she gasped when Myka finally broke away. Her shirt was horribly wrinkled and she found she was straddling Myka’s lap, but she didn’t regret her state in the least. “I was beginning to worry I’d never get to kiss you again.”

“There’s gonna be a hell of a lot more than just kissing, if I have my way,” replied Myka, out of breath.

“Right now?” asked Helena with surprise. “Not that I’m against the idea of course, but then again, I suppose as I don’t even have a bedroom of my own…”

Myka smiled and leaned forward, burying her face in Helena’s neck. “God, I missed you,” she whispered.

“I missed you too, darling,” she whispered in return, curling one hand around the back of Myka’s head. “But I’m here now,” she added. “And I shan’t leave you again.” At this, she felt Myka smile against her skin, and Helena sighed, closed her eyes, and quietly gave thanks for the blessing that was Myka Bering.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This epilogue is utterly unnecessary to the plot of the story and is therefore shameless fluff.

“I still can’t believe it’s taken us two years to get around to this,” said Myka, turning the old-fashioned key in the lock on the door to the villa.

“Yes, well, finding time for a vacation can prove difficult when you’re busy saving the world, much less two weeks at once,” retorted Helena, brushing past Myka and their luggage and into the living room, where she promptly dropped her shoulder bag onto the couch. It made a surprisingly loud _thunk_ given how comfortable the couch looked and how relatively small the bag was, but Myka supposed she should’ve expected it, since she’d watched Helena stuff it with a laptop, an iPad, an e-reader, and a large book of crossword puzzles, along with no fewer than four novels (“although I adore the convenience of storing hundreds of novels for the weight of just one, sometimes I crave the solidity of a book,” Helena had said when she’d noticed the look Myka gave her while she was packing). Helena herself followed after, making no less noise on impact than her bag had.

“Claudia and Steve got theirs ages ago,” mourned Myka, setting the key down on the table inside the door. “Which seems sort of unfair, since we met before they did. But I guess at least we’re here now,” she finished, glancing around the room. It was painted a cheerful yellow, and decorated with furniture that ran the gamut of style, from the modern, white leather couch on which Helena was reclined to the replica Baroque chairs that sat just on either side of the front door. She took a few steps inside so she could see out the window, taking in the view: the pool belonging to their villa down below, the city of Cannes below that, and further down, past the buildings, was the ocean. She smiled, declared it would do, and turned back to bring in their luggage, rolling her eyes at the two large bags Helena had brought standing next to her one small suitcase.

Traveling light, she’d learned, was not one of Helena’s strong suits, not since she’d come back from Boone lamenting the fact that all her worldly belongings fit in one bag.

When the bags were inside and the door was closed, Myka found Helena was gone from the couch, so she rambled through the villa in search of her. She poked her head inside two bedrooms, a bathroom, and the kitchen—where she found a bottle of wine and a vase full of what looked to be fresh lavender cut from the path leading up to the villa’s front door—and finally found her in the dining room, standing next to a table that was much too large for just the two of them. Helena looked tired and rumpled from the flight and the drive, but she was still undeniably beautiful, especially when she glanced up from the card in her hand, met Myka’s eyes, and smiled in that soft way she only ever smiled at Myka. “The man who owns this place is very sweet,” she said, offering the card.

 _Congratulations on your wedding. I wish you every happiness in your life together, and hope you enjoy your stay_. Beneath that was a signature, and a note that they shouldn’t hesitate to contact him if they needed anything while they were in Cannes. “That’s really nice of him,” said Myka, folding the card closed and setting it down on the table.  Only then did she notice the envelope it had come in was addressed to _Mesdames Bering-Wells_ , and she had to laugh. “Y’know, I’m still kinda mad you didn’t change your name.”

“Darling,” purred Helena, pressing herself up against Myka’s back, “how many times have we been through this? When one is H.G. Wells, one does not simply change one’s name.”

Myka, still smiling, turned in Helena’s hold so she was facing her, and slid her own arms around her wife. “I suppose,” she said, “Helena George Bering-Wells is a bit of a mouthful.”

Though Myka had expected her to roll her eyes, Helena simply cocked her head. “Does it truly bother you?” she asked. “That I didn’t wish to change my name?”

“No,” answered Myka honestly. “Don’t get me wrong—it would’ve been nice to match, but I know what your name means to you.”

Helena made a noise of contentment in her throat, and leaned into Myka, wrapping her tighter in her embrace. After a long moment, her lips pressed against the sensitive place just behind and below Myka’s ear. “Two whole weeks,” she murmured. “Whatever shall we do with all that time to ourselves?” She pulled back, just far enough for Myka to look down into her eyes and see the wicked gleam in them. Myka laughed, fitting her hand into the small of Helena’s back, and kissed her cheek.

“I think I could do with a nap first,” said Myka. “There’s plenty of time for that after, don’t you think?”

“I suppose a nap could be in order,” replied Helena, looking amused. “It _was_ quite a long journey, after all.” She eased back, out of the circle of Myka’s arms, and slipped out of the jacket she’d worn during their travels. “But I do have my priorities,” she added, turning and letting the jacket fall to the ground as she walked away. When she got to the doorway that would take her out of Myka’s line of sight, she stopped, grabbed the hem of her shirt, and tugged it up over her head, dropping it on the floor as well. Now in just her jeans and black bra, Helena glanced over her shoulder at Myka with a raised eyebrow. “Coming, darling?”

She didn’t want to say no. Not after everything they’d been through, after the work they’d had to put in to get through all of Helena’s betrayals and half-truths, and all of the other obstacles that had been put in their way. They were in a good place now, a better place than Myka would have thought possible two years before. She may have been tired from the trip, and from the bags under Helena’s eyes Myka thought she was, too, but they had two weeks to rest before they had to be back at the Warehouse, and Steve, Claudia, Pete, and the “new guy,” Janelle, had things well in hand until then.

So really, there was no _reason_ to say no. Not when Helena was standing there looking so divine with her heavy-lidded bedroom eyes and that smirk.

Myka made use of her long legs and crossed the distance between them in a few strides, catching Helena around the waist, turning her with hands resting on her hips, and bending to press a kiss to the words on Helena’s bicep, dark against her pale skin: _Oh, sorry_.

Thankfully neither of them had anything to be sorry for these days; everything that had happened had brought them to this, so what was the point in regret when they were together now? They were _married_ , for god’s sake! Myka’s parents had even been at the ceremony, which had been kind of a big deal. Hell, her dad had even made a toast “to the happy couple.” (Myka supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised that Helena was able to charm her cantankerous father into welcoming her to their family. Helena could charm anyone when she set out to do so.)

“How is it possible it’s been a month since we got married already?” she murmured against Helena’s skin.

“Myka, darling,” Helena replied, tilting her head to one side and grasping the back of Myka’s head, gently guiding her mouth up towards her neck instead of her arm or her shoulder. Myka knew a command from Helena when she felt one, and was only too happy to oblige, kissing the soft skin of Helena’s throat, drinking in her perfume as Helena sighed. “We can talk later,” she added quietly into Myka’s ear. “Right now, I want you to take me to whatever bed is nearest, and _fuck me_.”

The last words she said almost violently, and Myka found all the breath in her lungs hissing out against Helena’s skin in response. “Shit,” she gasped, pulling away from Helena’s skin. She needed to look down into Helena’s eyes, to see if she was serious, although Myka had to admit Helena didn’t really talk like that unless she really _meant_ it. Sure enough, Helena’s eyes were dark, her lips slightly parted, her face slack with desire.

That’s what normal people did on their honeymoons anyway, right?

“Okay,” said Myka, grinning fiercely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it. I was going to apologize for leaving you hanging on the sex, but...I regret nothing. I'm sure you all have vivid imaginations and can fill in the scene that comes after on your own.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a list of other plot devices/soulmate ideas I considered/abandoned when writing this story. Feel free to use any/all of them if you're feeling inspired!
> 
>   * Pete having a soulmark for every member of the Warehouse team, some of which were platonic and some of which were unrequited. Discarded mostly because I was too lazy to figure out what everyone's first words to each other were, though this would probably make an interesting standalone work.
>   * Emily Lake developing a soulmark for Myka that was separate from Helena's soulmark. She then would've had two soulmarks in the same handwriting, and one of them would've said "Helena?" which is quite clearly not her name. Also very interesting, but I didn't feel like pursuing it.
>   * Using the variation of the soulmark trope that says that when your soulmate dies, your mark fades/disappears/scars over, and having that happen to Myka when Helena was put onto the Janus Coin, only to either a) have it reappear when Emily Lake no longer exists, or b) have Myka and Helena develop fresh soulmarks when Helena ends up back in her body.
> 



End file.
